


what i'll say is just what i'm hoping for

by ariastarke



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Love Letters, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, no forge sex au unfortunately, that they'll deny are love letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23450743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariastarke/pseuds/ariastarke
Summary: Gendry’s first raven sparks a string of letters between them that seem never-ending. Ravens from Storm’s End are the only ones she ever receives, but that’s quite alright with her.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Comments: 80
Kudos: 270





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Will I ever stop naming my fics after Adele songs? Never. [Here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7Cy1MziRJwizz5BFBsFcZJ?si=AvGbJVhjTSW1MB6qpUJluQ) is a playlist for the fic to listen to if you'd like!
> 
> This takes place a few months after the end of season 8 with some very minor changes. Gendry is still Lord of Storm's End, the North is still part of the Seven Kingdoms, Bran is still king, and Arya, Jon, and Sansa are together at Winterfell. Taking out forge sex (aka one of the few things that made season 8, um, barely tolerable) hurt my heart, but we do what we must for the fic, don't we?
> 
> Before anyone reads any further, this fic isn't the happiest, though it does have a happy, and very hopeful, ending. There's a lot of PTSD in here and a lot of the plot is Arya trying to work through all the trauma she's experienced since Ned was executed, as well her fighting to reclaim her identity. Basically, I hated how D&D brushed over the near-suicidal thoughts she had and ignored the trauma Arya had been exposed to, so I wrote this. If you're triggered in any way by panic attacks, insomnia, or talk of death and the overall horrible things that have happened to several characters throughout the books and show, please proceed with caution or don't continue any further. I'd never want anything to put someone in a bad place, take care of yourselves first things first <3

> _Daydreamer_  
>  _Sitting on the sea_  
>  _Soaking up the sun_  
>  _He is a real lover_  
>  _And making up the past_  
>  _Feeling up his girl_  
>  _Like he's never felt a figure before_
> 
> _A jaw dropper_  
>  _Looks good when he walks_  
>  _Is the subject of their talk_  
>  _He would be hard to chase_  
>  _But good to catch_  
>  _And he could change the world_  
>  _With his hands behind his back_
> 
> _—_ Daydreamer, Adele

* * *

The first letter comes four months after she returns home.

Ravens fly in and out of Winterfell every day, usually addressed to Sansa, talks of alliances and preparations for coming storms, political debates and polite inquiries about the affairs of the Starks.

Arya doesn't receive a single letter, nor does she expect to. Bran writes occasionally but they're for all three of them, Sansa, Jon, and her. She doesn't find herself breaking any seals or unrolling any scrolls. She's tempted once or twice to write to Brienne just for the sake of having a letter to open—she'd enjoyed the knight's company, but she always set the quill down a word or two in. She didn't know why, exactly.

It would have been nice to talk to someone who didn't bow so low they resembled a hunchback every time they saw her coming near, profusely thanking her for saving them all, bringing light to darkness, all that shit—

It would have been even nicer to talk to someone who wasn't scared of her.

She doesn't expect any letters to come. When a stack of them are placed in front of Sansa every morning, Arya never once looks eagerly at the bundle, wondering if one of them has been meant for her. She doesn't even look up from her plate. Jon sits next to Arya every morning at breakfast, the two of them silently eating their food, never glancing up.

The difference is, though, Jon gets ravens from Sam sometimes. They're long, rambling things, thick and weighted when the maester places them in front of Jon's plate. Arya doesn't think he's ever responded to a single one of them.

So the morning that her name is spoken, Arya doesn't look up. She continues spreading jam on her bread.

"Arya," Sansa repeats, touching her arm. "This one is for you."

She blinks up, looking curiously at the letter Sansa has in her fingers. And sure enough, her name is scrawled on the parchment right there. The handwriting is so unfamiliar to her; she doesn't think she's ever seen it before. "Where's it from?" she asks suspiciously.

"Storm's End, my lady," Maester Wolkan says, and Arya's fingers tighten around her butter knife. "I'm afraid I don't know whose hand that is, though. I couldn't tell you who it's from."

She takes the letter from Maester Wolkan with the other hand, standing up from her chair and taking her bread and jam with her. "I'm done with breakfast, I think," she tells Sansa. Jon doesn't look up from his own letter. "I'll be in my chambers if anyone needs me."

Anyone, Sansa has learned, meant her or Jon specifically. It had been a few weeks before that had caught on.

Arya locked the door behind her and sat on her bed, breaking the wax seal and immediately scanning the bottom of the parchment. _Yours, Gendry_. She lets out a breath and closes her eyes.

They hadn't seen each other since the day of Jon's trial, and she'd been so focused on getting her brother back that Arya couldn't have thought of giving him even a passing glance. When it was all over, when Jon had been returned to them and Bran had been pronounced King of the Seven Kingdoms, they'd shared a small smile and barely a word to each other before he was being called away.

And now she held a letter from him in her hands.

_My lady,_

_I didn't know that there was a difference between my lady and m'lady until I got here—another thing I've been trying to get used to since I was legitimized. I'm sorry if there are any mistakes in here or if you can't read a thing I've written. I asked Davos to help and he's basically written the whole thing himself. I can read and write sort of but it's still a bit hard to write a whole letter. Sometimes I wonder what everyone was thinking when they decided to make me a lord._

_I've decided to write to tell you that you're right. Being a noble is a bit of a bore, isn't it? I don't know all that much yet to really do a lot. I've got advisers and Davos is always helping but it's hard. I thought that lords and ladies always sat down and made choices that were bad for the common people on purpose, but it's worse. I don't know how your sister is doing things there, but here it's like they don't even care at all. They don't even acknowledge that they exist half the time._

_I bet you like hearing that you were right. Being highborn isn’t anything all that special, is it? But I suppose I’ve got a job to do now, and if it helps out the smallfolk, I say it’s worth it._

_I’m sorry the last time we saw each other was right before a battle and during a trial. I miss your company. It would be nice to see you without someone always trying to kill someone else._

_Yours, Gendry_

* * *

The letters they exchange mean far much more than either of them would like to admit.

Gendry’s first raven sparks a string of letters between them that seem never-ending. Ravens from Storm’s End are the only ones she ever receives, but that’s quite alright with her.

Sansa drowns in endless ravens dripping with false courtesies that involve a lot of dancing around the subject. Arya prefers her own correspondence.

_Lord Gendry,_

_Do you hate being referred to by your title as much as I hoped you would? Sorry if that’s selfish. You’ve called my m’lady too many times to forgive, I’m afraid. Old habits die hard and I was always rather good at holding grudges. Just ask my sister Sansa, she’ll tell you. It might take her awhile to reply, though. She's got so many ravens to sift through I'm surprised she manages to sleep even a bit at night. I can't say I'm jealous of her. I think we've established that I'm not a lady._

_I don't mind any mistakes, by the way. It just means you're learning, and at least you've got Ser Davos to help you if you need it. I'm able to read your letters well enough, so you must write pretty nicely for someone who's just learning. If you wouldn't mind it, I could tell you if you've erred anywhere in the future._

_I guess I've missed your company, too. It isn't like we had much time to speak when you were at Winterfell. If you'd like to rectify that, I'm sure Sansa will have a room ready for you to sleep in._

_Arya_

She barely has time to question if he knows the meaning of the word _rectify_ or if her letter was too short or too formal. She sends it as fast as she can because she knows if she doesn't, she'll lose her nerve and she'll never reply.

Ravens fly back and forth at their command, and even while she feels something tugging at the pit of her stomach when she finds a letter waiting for her, Arya can't quite muster up a smile. Not yet.

* * *

Winterfell was cold, but it doesn't stop Arya from training.

How many legends had she lived off of, stories of warrior queens who brought armies down to their knees with a swing of their Valyrian steel swords and their fierce battle cries? Arya never believed in the songs, and she could never think of Visenya and Rhaenys quite the same as she used to now that she'd met a Targaryen herself, but she doubted any of them stopped training just because their wars were finished.

The trouble was finding someone to train with her who wouldn't go easy on her. With the way they bowed to her and thanked her, she figured everyone would know better than to think they would have to go easy on her.

Jon would often watch her train, his eyes following her quick movements with something like curiosity and sadness mingled together. He'd given her Needle, given her the very first lesson of swordplay and by far the most important, more so than anything she'd learned from Syrio Forel, Jaqen H'ghar, the Hound...and yet he still seemed to find the sight of her handling a sword so familiarly unsettling.

"You don't have to train, you know," Jon remarked one day. They hardly talked anymore, Arya realized. The thought made some part of her ache with resentment. For what, or who, she didn't know. Jon rarely spoke to anyone anymore, especially not if he hadn't been addressed directly first, preferring to go to his room in between meals and keep his presence scarce in the meantime. Arya supposed it was a lucky thing Sansa wanted the seat of Winterfell. If Jon had taken it, he would have driven himself and half the kingdom insane. "The war's over. There's peace now, isn't there? No need to train."

Arya twirled Needle between her fingers before sliding it back in its sheath. "Does it bother you?" she asked. "Seeing me with a sword?"

Had he seen her fight during the battle? Arya couldn't remember seeing much of him until after it was all over, and by then, they'd been so relieved to find each other alive that all they could do was hold each other until it was time to burn their dead.

"I gave you that sword," Jon said.

"That's not an answer."

He didn't give her one, though. Instead, he got up and went back towards the castle, leaving Arya all alone in the courtyard. Suddenly, she found herself getting angry at Jon. What had he expected her to do when he gave her a real sword, made to fit her perfectly and her alone? The balance, the weight, the steel...everything about it had been crafted specifically for Arya and here Jon was, watching her like he didn't approve, like the way Father had eyed the sword when he'd first laid eyes on it so long ago. Had he thought she'd just swing it around mindlessly in her room when there was no one around to see her? When trouble had come her way, she'd learned to defend herself. She thought he would have been proud of her for that, or at least grateful that she'd come out the other end alive.

But there were so many things about Jon that confused her now. Things that made Arya too upset to think about, and she already felt so tired these days.

* * *

_Arya,_

_Ser Davos is getting short with me. He's still reading over my letters so I know he's going to see this. Good. He doesn't listen to me much when I talk, anyway. He's trying to get me to start acting like a "proper lord" but I thought that being a proper lord meant making sure the kingdom you were running was happy, not keeping the pampered asses satisfied so they don't rebel._

_There are people that are going hungry in the streets every single day but none of the other lords want to listen. They say we need to focus on the more important things at hand. If the nobels can rebel, then so can the common people, can't they? Why would it not be in our best interests to keep them happy, too? It's not difficult to set up a cart of food to give out on the street corners, especially when we've got so much left after every dinner. I realized I'm not much for decoration. I don't know what's reasonable or what's necessary, or why some things stay in fashion for years when others come and go faster than I finish breaking my fast. It's just more money down the pipes, isn't it?_

_If you've got any advice, I'd love to hear it. I don't think I'm very good at this whole lord thing. I think everyone else here would agree. But Davos would never say it to my face, though. He's too nice about all of it, probably because he's from Flea Bottom and managed to rise up well enough for himself, too. I would have been happy enough with a forge and the company of someone I didn't tire of. Any idea where I could find such a person, if they exist?_

_Yours, Gendry_

Arya traced the dried ink on the parchment, her thumb rubbing across his parting words. _Yours, Gendry_. He always signed his letters the same way, every time. She usually just wrote her name out, informal and impersonal all at once. They had long since given up exchanging their titles. Gendry despised being addressed as lord, mostly because he felt like he was being mocked most of the time, and Arya was not the Lady of Winterfell, just her sister. Officially, yes, she was a lady, and her place had been set at Winterfell, but Arya didn't like it any more now than she had when she was a little girl of nine.

Her eyes scanned Gendry's latest letter again, eating up the words as if they could fill up her stomach with something tangible. Most of his ravens came with a strong sense of pessimism attached to the parchment. She wondered how Davos felt when he checked over the words for any errors. Did he think Gendry was a suitable lord? Did he approve? Did he ever advise him to rewrite any of the letters he sent because there was something inappropriate in them?

But this one in particular...Gendry had never been the type to be enchanted by tales of knights of valor or ladies waiting by tall tower windows. He'd had a special kind of dislike for highborns, something that Arya couldn't help but recoil from when she reminded him that _she_ was highborn. She tried to do it as little as possible, though. Back in those days, Arya hadn't even wanted to remember that about herself, either. But even though he'd always been rather detached from the ideas of nobility, he still seemed so let down by what had greeted him in Storm's End. It made her angry at every single person that had been assigned to advise him, including Davos.

He was sitting there in a castle, waited on hand and foot, gifted with just about anything his brain could ever dream up, and still he was dissatisfied. Arya grimaced at that. It wasn't because he wanted more, it was because he wanted _others_ to have more. What had they thought would happen when they put a baseborn smith who'd never been treated fairly a day in his life in a seat of power? Gendry was not a warm person in the slightest but he still seemed to have more compassion than she saw in most of the lords she'd come across in her whole life. She'd feel proud of him if she wasn't quietly seething at their dismissal of him.

_Gendry,_

_I can't say it's satisfying to see how frustrated you are, not even a little bit. I'm sorry that you're not charmed by Storm's End or its inhabitants, but you are their lord nonetheless. You should remember that next time you try to get a word in during council meetings. They are there to advise you but you can always have the last word, especially if you think they're advising you against your best interests, or the interests of the common people. I do think it's nice to finally have a lord who cares more about the common people than the next feast or tourney, though. It's a rare thing to come by._

_I don't much care for crossing any lines with you. I think we've known each other in harsh enough conditions that you wouldn't mind a word or two of advice. I'm no diplomat—that title belongs to my sister and she can have it. But I did spend a lot of time with my father and learned enough from him that I know you have to give the common people as much of your ear as you can afford without losing the support of the nobles. Those in power will never listen to you if they think you're going to take away your status and they'll sooner stab you in the back than offer a beggar on the street a piece of bread. If it were up to me, then I would say fuck them all, but that won't do you any good, will it?_

_So instead I'll leave you with this. Show them who you are. They all know who your father was. Most of them were around during King Robert's reign. Show them you're better and show them you won't leave your seat in their hands while you fuck off to gods know where to do whatever you like. If you want to make the lives of the common people better, do it. Just try and do it in the type of way that makes the nobles think they're gaining something out of it as well._

_I daresay Storm's End has been struck by a significant amount of luck in that department. I'm sure their loyalty to you will make up for your council's dismissal as long as you don't tolerate it any longer. I'm happy someone who actually cares about the well being of their citizens is finally in charge. It's been too long since that's happened._

_Arya_

His next letter doesn't take very long to arrive, but it's too short and too bitter for Arya to feel any kind of happiness while reading it.

_Arya,_

_I don't think I'm in charge as much as my title suggests. I'll take your advice as well as I can. I still have Davos to help, and he was by Stannis's side for long enough that I'm sure he knows enough about dealing with stuck-up highborn lords and ladies, so that's good news, at least._

_You've told me enough times that I'm stubborn, I bet I can use it to my advantage. I bet Storm's End would do better if you were here to scare everyone straight into listening to me. You were always pretty good at that._

_Yours, Gendry_

* * *

"People are beginning to talk."

Sansa was looking down at Arya sitting in her spot on the ground, back propped up against a tree with her knees drawn up. She raised her eyes up to her older sister and looked carefully at the hard look that was etched on Sansa's face.

"Has the spoken word been discovered?" she asked, one eyebrow arched up.

"Don't start."

"Would you care to tell me what you're talking about?"

"The ravens."

Arya's hands automatically tightened around the parchment she was currently holding. Gendry's raven had arrived that morning. When Maester Wolkan had handed it to her, Arya hadn't even finished her plate of eggs before she was walking out to the courtyard to read in peace. She'd been rereading his rather shaky descriptions of how trying to convince the lesser nobles of Storm's End to pay more attention to their own people had been going and debating how to respond when Sansa had approached her.

The two of them looked at each other for a few hard seconds, neither of them looking away. Arya wondered if Sansa had finished her own breakfast before following Arya out.

"You receive plenty of ravens, don't you?" Arya finally pointed out.

"Yes, and they're all matters of politics. You are consistently corresponding with a friend—"

"Is that considered illegal now? Someone must tell Bran, then. He'll have to put his sister on trial."

Sansa rolled her eyes. "It's not a joke. He's the only one you ever speak to. People are saying you two are...intimate."

Arya scoffed. "We're hundreds of leagues apart and we haven't seen each other since Jon and Tyrion's trial."

"Letters can hold a lot more than just words."

Here she laughed. "Is that what you're worried about? That people will think I'm writing to Gendry to fu—"

"Do you have to be so crass about it?"

Arya folded up her letter and stood up. She was so much shorter than Sansa but the stony look on her face made up for their difference in height. "Sansa. He's my _friend_. I spent a lot of time with him on the run after Father was executed. He protected me through the woods, he protected me in Harrenhal, he protected me with the Brotherhood. I thought he was dead after the Red Woman took him and he thought I was dead after Mother and Robb were killed. Is it so wrong that I want to talk to someone who I consider a friend?"

"Is he the only one you can talk to?"

The question made Arya pause. She blinked twice, looking away from Sansa and instead focusing on one of the balconies of the castle. "I don't know," she replied stiffly. "Will you repeat whatever I tell you in confidence?"

Sansa stiffened. It was the first time the subject of Sansa revealing Jon's true parentage had been brought up and Arya could tell she had been hoping it never would have. Months had passed and Arya hadn't said a word about it, but she'd barely said a word to Sansa, period. It was hard to describe the way she was feeling when she didn't quite know. Anger at Sansa for betraying a promise she'd said in the godswood, annoyance at Jon for promising the North to a queen no one except for him had ever met before, and that empty, gnawing feeling she got every single time she received a letter from Gendry. She didn't want to say she missed him because she was so scared she didn't even _know_ him anymore, but she did. She'd missed him since the Red Woman had taken him away, since he'd told her he was joining the Brotherhood...Arya hadn't felt anything in so long, but it had been even longer since she'd felt peace. Sansa's presence did little to soothe that.

"Arya, please," Sansa said quietly. "I did it for the family, for Jon, for Winterfell—"

"I don't care why you did it," Arya stated. "You're Lady of Winterfell, you're also my sister, and my sister broke a promise."

"I didn't do it to become the Lady of Winterfell."

"I don't _care_ ," Arya repeated. "Have you not noticed that Jon doesn't speak to anybody since he _killed_ Daenerys? Have you not realized that he hasn't shown up to a single feast and he leaves every single meal early? I don't think he's spoken to a single person outside of the two of us or Bran, and even that's few and far between."

"It's not my fault that she burned a city and he saw what she was capable of if she took the Iron Throne."

"No, it isn't," Arya agreed. "But you told Tyrion _before_ she burned King's Landing."

Sansa had no reply to that. Arya kept her gaze on her sister while she formed a response. She would always be her family, that would never change. But that did not mean she would find it in herself to trust Sansa enough to share any of her own secrets any time soon.

Finally, Sansa rolled her shoulders back and stood up to her full height. "Make sure you know what you're doing with those ravens," she said, her voice trembling just slightly. "Gendry's gotten quite a reputation as a rather stoic, stubborn lord. Don't do anything you'll regret."

She left Arya by herself, already scratching out the beginnings of a new letter.

* * *

Jon was in the godswood when Arya finally found him.

He had his sword planted in the ground, gloved hands clasped around the hilt with his head bowed down, eyes shut. She stood there, her fingers clenched around the parchment in her hand, watching him. What was he praying for? Peace? Quiet? Was he even praying, or was he just here to find a way to get away from everyone back at the castle? Arya couldn’t blame him, but she missed her brother more than anything.

Finally, Jon sheathed his sword and stood up, brushing the snow off his clothes.

"What are you praying for?" Arya couldn't keep herself from asking.

"Purpose," Jon answered easily, but he didn't elaborate any further and she didn't ask. "What do you pray for, Arya?"

She didn't have an answer to give him.

"You should stop sneaking up on people, you know," he told her when he faced her.

“If you’d join everyone,” Arya started, “maybe I wouldn’t have to.” It was hypocritical at best to say it, and she knew that very well. She avoided everyone just as much as he did.

“What are you doing here?” Jon asked.

“I got a raven today.” She held up the letter. “A royal raven.”

“From who? Bran?”

“Sam.”

Jon met her gaze and raised his eyebrows stubbornly, waiting for her to continue as his lips set into a hard line.

"Shall I read it, then?" Arya asked, letting her frustration show as her impatience grew. “Alright.” She'd reread the letter enough times that she knew what it said, but she cleared her throat and looked down anyway. “ _Lady Stark. I write to you because Jon always spoke so highly of you at Castle Black. I know you were each other’s favorites, so I’m hoping you’ll be able to talk to him since I have not._ ”

“I get it,” Jon mumbled.

“ _It’s been nearly nine moons since the tragedy at King’s Landing and I haven’t spoken to Jon all this time_ ,” she continued to recite as if he hadn’t spoken. “ _I’m quite concerned. He was never a man of many words but the silence is what worries me. If you could reassure me and let me know if he’s okay or perhaps persuade him to send me a raven of his own_ —”

“I said I get it!” Jon repeated fiercely.

“Do you?” Arya asked. “Why haven’t you written to Sam? He’s your best friend, isn’t he? He writes to you all the time, we see the ravens coming in almost every month. Why don’t you write to him?”

“It’s not your concern.”

“You’re my _brother_.”

“No, I’m not.”

His words were so quiet that Arya barely heard him, even in the stillness of the godswood. But when they’d finally registered, she flinched back.

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not a Stark.”

Arya stormed over to him, shoving the letter in Jon’s hands. “You are a Stark. You were raised just as I was. I don’t care who your father is, or your mother, your aunt, your siblings or your cousins, I don’t care. You’re my brother.”

“I’m a kinslayer.” Jon said it all very matter-of-factly. She wondered if he had nightmares like she did. “I loved her.”

The words were hard to hear but she knew they rang true. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could have done something to help.”

“It was the only thing that ever could have been done. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else, and they would have made it more terrible than it already was.”

“Jon—”

“I miss her. I knelt because I believed in her.”

“Would you do it again?” she questioned. “Would you kneel again, knowing what you know now?”

Jon shook his head. “I’d make sure things were better. If we’d have just waited...not been so hasty to attack—”

“You’d kneel again?”

Jon never answered that question. Arya didn’t think he even knew what he wanted to say. She wanted to know about the Daenerys Targaryen that Jon had fallen in love with, the one he believed in. Arya thought of the way her breath had caught when she’d seen the dragons flying overhead, the way Daenerys had brought her army to Winterfell to push back the dead for them. Looking at Jon now, at how he couldn’t even bring himself to say her _name_ , Arya knew that the queen who had sacked a city and burned it to the ground had not been the one he’d fallen in love with.

“I believed she’d make the world a better place. For the North, as well, under her reign. Do you actually think I’d have bent the knee if I knew what would happen?”

“Never,” Arya swore.

When she’d seen the Dragon Queen arrive at Winterfell, all Arya could think about was how hard she struggled in order to get back. To hear that someone wanted to take the North’s independence again, bring them back under the fold of the Seven Kingdoms...Arya had recoiled from it without ever even thinking twice. Was that where she had been mistaken? Before King’s Landing, had she ever seen anything in Daenerys’s eyes other than the desire to take the Iron Throne and the drive to kill the Night King? Had there ever been anything about her that hinted to the madness people always associated with Targaryens, or had it just been her unwillingness to trust anyone without Stark blood when it came to matters of safety? It wasn’t something Arya liked to think about, the idea of being wrong, but talking about it with Jon was bound to rip those questions wide open. Had her second dragon not fallen, had her friend not been slain, would she still have burned King’s Landing?

 _Maybe_ , Arya thought. _But maybe not._

“You’ve done it already,” she reminded Jon. “Will you lock yourself away forever? You loved her and now she’s gone, and so is that new world she wanted you to build with her. Will you let yourself wither away now?”

Jon looked at her like he was seeing a new person. “And you?” he shot back. “What’s your defense against locking yourself up, staying away from everybody who tries to come near you?”

Arya shifted uncomfortably under Jon’s hard stare. “I don’t like crowds—”

“You used to love feasts, and going to meet all the people in Wintertown—”

“I’m not a child anymore, Jon!” Arya yelled. How had the conversation turned around on her so suddenly? “Children don’t stab people, or poison food, or change faces. I’m not the little girl you gave Needle to all those years ago.”

Jon put a hand on her shoulder and looked at her, _really_ looked at her, possibly for the first time since they’d been reunited. “No, you’re not,” he conceded. “What happened to you?”

“What happened to _you_?” she snapped back at him.

Jon sighed heavily, tightening his hand around Sam’s letter. “I died,” he stated, looking at the weirwood tree.

 _Yeah_ , Arya thought. _So did I_.

* * *

_Lady Stark,_

_I've received a letter of invitation from your sister to visit Winterfell, but I haven't answered yet. I wanted to know if you'd be alright with me coming to stay for a short while. I'd hate to be the cause of any annoyance of yours, though it's such a common occurrence that I'm afraid I wouldn't know the difference either way..._

_Lord Baratheon,_

_I much rather preferred when you said and acted as you liked without thinking twice. You were always much more pleasant that way. I'll accept your presence at Winterfell if you promise to behave as such once again..._

_...I've only been to Winterfell once, but I liked it well enough to visit again. Although if I'm being honest, I wouldn't bother coming if you weren't there. I don't know your sister all that well and I did say I missed your company..._

_...Sansa's like to plan a big feast for your visit, just as a warning. I don't imagine your social tendencies have improved since we last met, not that I can blame you. They get boring after a bit, but if you find the right people to keep you company for the night, they're not so unbearable. I'm sure you'll find someone like that easily enough..._

_...Davos is practically packing the bags already. He's missed the North for some reason, can't imagine why. It's pretty enough, but I think he just wants to get away from Storm's End for a bit..._

_...This time, I'll have to remember to show you some of the prettier parts of Winterfell. You barely stepped out of the forge last time..._

_...I do look forward to coming soon, though, even though I'll probably freeze half to death during my visit._

_...I guess it wouldn't be too bad seeing you again. About time I saw how well being a lord suits you._

_Yours, Gendry_

_Yours, Arya_

* * *

Arya had the very distinct feeling that she was dying.

She jerked awake with the same urgency she grew familiar with when she felt a crushing life or death situation upon her and she knew she needed to _leave_ as soon as possible. Snow was falling outside at a rapid pace and the wind was practically whistling beyond her window, but she had to shove the furs away from her body, suffocating under the pressing weight. Every time she tried to take a breath, it got stuck in her throat not even halfway down. She was sweating and her hands were shaking and she couldn't fucking _breathe_ —when did it get so hard to inhale?

The floor was cold against her bare feet but Arya barely felt it as she stumbled to the basin of water that had been set near her vanity. She splashed water across her face, managing to get the majority of it on the floor and across her nightclothes from the way her hands had not yet ceased their trembling.

Why couldn't she breathe, why had her eyes barely adjusted to the darkness of her room? For a horrible moment, Arya thought she was back at the House of Black and White, blind and scared and defenseless, even as she tried her hardest to become anything else. She threw a dressing gown over her body and flung the door open. Everything Syrio Forel and Jaqen H'ghar had ever taught her flitted away from her mind—how could she be silent or stealthy when she was barely aware of herself?

In her haste to get outside, nothing else mattered. She’d bothered Sansa so many times about getting better guards, but even at her worst, she was able to slip by them. Or maybe they just didn’t bother her, she wouldn’t know. By the time she got to the godswood, Arya was able to breathe a bit better than before. The cold air was sharp against her face and lungs, giving her a bit of calm where she'd had none.

The godswood used to be one of her favorite places in the whole castle. It was large and open and she used to sit and watch her father hone Ice over here. And now, in the midst of her panic, Arya couldn't think of anyone or anything except that awful night. _You will forever be a hero_ , Daenerys Targaryen had said to her before they'd begun talking about battle strategies to overthrow Cersei. Sansa had said something similar to her after they'd found each other in the aftermath of the battle. _They'll sing songs about you until the end of days_ , she'd told her. _Your name will not be forgotten_.

Arya tried once more to take a deep breath, relieved when she didn't choke it back up, and reached out to touch one of the weirwood trees, hoping to feel that same spark she used to when she would pray.

Slow steps through the snow left footprints in her wake as she traveled from tree to tree, letting her hand pass over each one as she went before she finally found the one she'd been looking for. _There_ , Bran had been sitting in his chair. And the Night King had stood right before him, every single White Walker standing in mindless, obedient formation behind them. Arya's hand shook as she reached out, her fingers hesitantly brushing against the trunk, her eyes slipping closed— _there_.

Her body shook almost madly as she felt it—that old, not-of-this-world type of feeling in the pit of her stomach. _Of course it would be at this tree_ , Arya thought ruefully, but she couldn't muster up any bitterness when all she could process was pure, white _relief_. She didn't realize how hard she'd been crying until she fell to her knees before the weirwood tree, pressing her whole hand against the trunk, desperate to feel more of that connection.

 _This_ , this was the home of her childhood. It was Eddard Stark's indulgent laugh as she practiced archery when she wasn't allowed to, hugging her tight to his side and telling her she was such a good girl. Catelyn Stark, trying to tame her youngest daughter's mess of hair, exasperated and tired and absolutely baffled at this little girl who was so fierce and willful. Robb, offering her a bit of wine during dinner when their parents weren't looking while Theon teased her and told her she reminded him of a hellcat, teaching her how to play cards and dice and telling her to run along before she got in trouble and they couldn't sneak off any longer. Sansa, sitting up straight in her chair while Arya looked on in envy, not jealous of her but desperately wanting that proud smile Catelyn offered her so easily. Bran, telling her of all of the things he saw when he climbed so high no one could even catch sight of him. Rickon, wild and loud and full of energy, his eyes bright and his legs quick. And _Jon_ , Arya thought as her tears fell harder, passing Needle over to her as carefully as he could, picking her up as if she weighed little more than a handful of feathers, sneaking her out of lessons with Septa Mordane, calling her _little sister_ with the most affection she'd ever heard, laughing together and finishing each other sentences in perfect sync, always in tune to each other no matter what.

A sob fell from her lips and Arya pressed a fist to her mouth as she used her other hand to wipe the tears away but they continued to fall. This was the home of her childhood, but it was not the same anymore. Not since they left for King's Landing, since Theon took the castle, since the Boltons invaded her _home_ , since her father and mother and brothers were killed before she even got a chance to say goodbye. She'd fought so hard to get here, and all that remained were memories that did nothing to comfort her in the middle of the night. She hadn't survived a knife to the heart like Jon had but she felt like Arya Stark, the girl of water dancing and great dreams of greater adventures, chasing cats of wishing to become a lord herself, had died long ago. She did not ask to become the girl she was now; she'd done what she had to do in order to survive and the consequences had caught up with her. She thought she wanted revenge for her family, torn apart and ripped to shreds, for her lost pack. She'd thought that by bringing justice to a word where there had previously been _none_ , she'd be whole again for the first time since Eddard Stark's head had been removed from his shoulders. She'd been so young, so traumatized and broken that she didn't know— _How was she expected to_ know?

She'd been forced to grow up so fast in a world no one had told her about, and now her dreams were red and so were her hands and she wanted to go home so badly, it made her tremble when she realized that she _was_ home. So why did she still feel so godsdamned lost?

Arya sniffed and rubbed at her eyes, her hand curling into a fist against the trunk of the weirwood tree. _What do you pray for, Arya_? Jon had asked her. She hadn't answered. She hadn't prayed in so long but if she had, it would be for home. She was standing in the heart of the place she loved so much and felt only grief, grief that she hadn't allowed herself to feel for so long. _Home_ , she thought, smoothing her fingers out against the wood, _I pray for home_.

Arya closed her eyes, rested her forehead against the weirwood tree, and for the first time in so many years she'd lost count, she prayed.

* * *

If Needle was Jon Snow and his smile, then that feeling of comfort and safety she felt when _he_ rode in was all Gendry.

He arrived on his horse, Ser Davos right behind him. Sansa was right there in the courtyard to greet them, Jon at her side. But Jon was looking up at the balcony Arya was lurking on, reluctant to go down. Only he knew she was there, and she preferred to keep it that way.

Instead, she watched as Gendry dismounted from his horse, still a bit unsteady on horseback, and immediately bowed to Sansa. From what Arya could see from her vantage point, Sansa accepted him warmly enough before he clasped Jon’s arm with a big smile. But he was looking around the courtyard and Arya’s hand hovered over the banister, wondering if she should go down. _I never should have told him to come to Winterfell_ , Arya thought bitterly, gripping the banister hard enough her knuckles turned white. She had been so blindly eager to see him that she’d just spewed out a yes without thinking. It was so much easier to talk to him when he wasn’t right in front of her, when she had weeks to think of her reply to his latest letter.

Davos was saying something to Gendry and he finally stopped searching the grounds with a reigned nod and they turned, presumably to head towards their rooms.

“My lord!”

Gendry’s head whipped around to see Arya stalking towards them, her cloak flying behind her in the wind. He automatically grinned at her. “Since when did you start using titles?” he asked.

Arya shrugged her shoulders and ignored the way Jon was squinting at her. “Since I figured it would only be right to pay you back after so much teasing.”

“Well, _my lady_ , if I can ever offer any services other than teasing—”

“Lord Gendry, we should settle into our chambers,” Davos suggested pointedly.

Gendry kept his eyes on Arya as he nodded again. “Right, then. Will I be seeing you?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“There’s going to be a feast tonight,” Sansa piped up, and Arya kind of wanted to glare at her for interrupting. “To honor Lord Gendry’s visit. Surely you two will be able to catch up then, won’t you?”

Arya cocked her head to the side as she studied Gendry, the planes of his face she used to have memorized. When had she forgotten? Had it been when she’d tried to forget herself, or when he’d left for Storm’s End and she knew she’d be losing her best friend, as well? She doesn’t smile at him, but there’s a part of her that believes if she had wanted, it wouldn’t hurt as bad as it used to.

“I’m sure we will.”

* * *

They do spend the majority of the feast together. It had taken Arya less than ten minutes to drag him away from a few of the guests that Sansa had invited and he looked eternally grateful to her for that. When they’d first met, Arya had thought Gendry’s silence and overall grumpiness had been due to him trying to make himself as scarce as possible. He was large and muscular and dragged the eye, so she’d assumed that by not speaking to anyone, it was his way of trying to stay away from any wandering eyes that meant to do anyone harm. But as they continued to travel together, it became clear that he simply did not have an interest in small talk, friendliness, or polite conversation. Arya didn’t mind so much. She’d always been rather social when she’d been a young girl but she always liked to skip the small talk as well—she was just the one who preferred conversation to silence. Now, though, Arya could barely feel the energy to do much more than circle the room with Gendry at her side, both of them content to share each other’s silence.

Sansa watched them out of the corner of her eye the whole night and Arya wondered for possibly the thousandth time since she’d received Gendry’s letter _why_ her sister had invited Gendry here. Had it not only been a short while ago that she’d warned Arya against exchanging ravens so frequently with him and yet here she was, bringing him to Winterfell and offering to let him stay for as long as he wanted?

Arya wondered if Sansa had any ulterior motive but couldn’t think of any. She felt like she didn’t know her sister very much anymore at all, but she knew that Sansa probably thought the same of her. When they’d been children, fighting every single day in the Red Keep and driving their father near insanity with their incessant arguments, Sansa had been half-blind in love with Joffrey and sighing over handsome knights while Arya had been chasing cats through the royal palace and itching to get farther and farther away from being a “proper lady”.

When they’d reunited after _years_ of thinking the other was dead, Sansa had been colder, more hardened, and Arya could barely sleep at night without being plagued by nightmares. The exact horrors Sansa had experienced during those years still remained a mystery to Arya, though she knew enough about her marriage to Ramsay Bolton that she almost wished the monster was alive again so she could kill him even more viciously.

“I heard there are a few people trying to get your sister’s hand,” Gendry commented.

Arya raised an eyebrow. “They are. No one’s being very subtle about it, either.”

Honestly, she doubted Sansa would ever marry again. The question of political alliances and an heir would no doubt arise soon, but she couldn’t be bothered with the politics of it all. Arya could barely get herself out of bed in the morning, and she was sure Sansa had enough answers lined up when people started questioning the future of Winterfell and the North.

“And you? Has anyone tried to take m’lady’s hand in marriage?” Gendry teased.

She felt her throat closed up and looked Gendry in the eye for the first time that night. His tone had been light but there was a certain tightness around his eyes that made her wonder what it was all about. “Not a one,” she answered honestly. “I think they’re all scared of me.”

Gendry scoffed. “Idiots,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. “With you as a wife, they’ll be the safest person in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t want to answer. The idea of marriage had never interested her before, and when she thought all of her family was gone, she knew that it would never be a possibility for her. But ever since she returned home, she’d been allowed to come and go as she pleased, make Winterfell her forever home just like she’d always wanted. As a child, Arya had dreamed of living in this castle until she grew old and gray just like Old Nan, a sword at her hip and a bow at her back, telling tales of her adventures to Robb’s children as they crowded around her. She hadn’t wanted anything except the family she already had.

Now, she would settle happily for a single night of sleep that didn’t end with her waking up in a cold sweat, finally breaking free of nightmares that refused to cease.

“Would you marry someone for safety?” Arya countered.

Gendry stared down at her, unblinking. “No. I’d marry someone I truly cared about.”

She couldn’t help but snort, the noise extremely unladylike in the elegant hall. “Life as a lord must come as a terrible shock to you.”

“It’s rather disenchanting.”

“Nothing like what you dreamed it would be?”

“I never dreamed of it,” Gendry told her.

For the first time that night, Arya saw just how tired and worn he looked. _He isn’t happy, either_ , she realized and suddenly, the night wasn’t as pleasant as it had been a moment before. She had thought that with Gendry by her side, she’d actually enjoy the feast to celebrate his visit, but seeing him looking as exhausted as he did made her even more upset. These days, Arya barely knew what it was that made her upset anymore. It was just a long, never-ending flow of _nothing_ that ebbed through her and she had no idea how to stop it.

The weary lines on Gendry’s face did not speak of worthwhile work or satisfying deeds done for the good of his people. They spoke of endless arguments with the advisers on his council and fighting to give the smallfolk even a crumb of decency that apparently couldn’t be spared because the nobles had gotten too used to a certain lifestyle.

 _I thought things were supposed to be better_ , Arya thought bitterly.

She brushed the back of her hand against Gendry’s and met his eyes when he looked down at her. “You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.”

He shook his head. “Not when they’re all breathing down my neck and waiting for me to fuck up badly enough that they can kick me out.”

“Make small actions that will get the common people on your side. If any other lord tries to take your seat, they’ll riot against them and you’ll see how much of a difference the support of the smallfolk can mean.”

“I don’t want to send them into a rebellion for the sake of keeping Storm’s End.”

“If it’s not you, do you think whoever steals it from you will be half as mindful to them as you are?”

Gendry had no response for her.

“Besides,” Arya continued, “they won’t have to go into a rebellion. If the smallfolk are comfortable enough, happy enough…you’d be surprised at how much smoother a kingdom can be run.”

“How do you know?”

“You forget how much time I spent on the streets in between running through the woods with you and finding my way back here.”

Sometimes, Arya forgot as well, but it was mostly because she tried her hardest.

* * *

The halls were quiet and empty when Arya made her way past the long rows of doors. She knew where Gendry had been set up for the duration of his visit—of _course_ she did—so she didn’t hesitate or wonder if she was at the right place.

She _did_ , however, pause and question if she should be here. They used to do this all the time, Arya tried to remind herself. Back when they were traveling with the Brotherhood and even her list had failed to bring her the peace she required in order to fall asleep. She’d roll right up to Gendry’s spot on the hard ground and curl up next to him. Sometimes he’d be asleep already but there were other times when he’d be awake and watched her as she approached him, her eyes downcast because she’d been too ashamed to meet his gaze. After all the horrors they’d witnessed, together no less, and Arya still had been too embarrassed to admit that she wasn’t able to sleep without some kind of comfort. Comfort that _he_ provided.

 _Yes_ , Arya thought as she put the tips of her fingers to the door, _we used to do this_. Back when she’d been no one but another girl on the run and he’d been nothing but another bastard smith with rotten luck. _He’s always been more than a bastard, King Robert’s son or not_ , Arya thought fiercely, knocking twice.

If anyone saw her...If Sansa heard, if Jon caught a look at her...They were not nothing anymore, she had to remember. Lord of Storm’s End, Lady of Winterfell. Was that all they were? Were their titles all they had left?

The door opened and Arya was met with the sight of Gendry, wearing only a pair of soft trousers and nothing else. His eyes widened at the sight of her and though she wanted to drop her eyes to his bare chest, she kept them resolutely on his.

“I thought you were Davos,” he explained, backing up. “I wouldn’t have...if I’d known…”

Arya leaned against the wall. “Scared of dishonoring me, my lord?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Another snarky comment was right on the tip of her tongue, about how he never seemed to care when they were on the run together. After he’d found out who she really was, he _did_ try to make sure to be more mindful of his actions, but traveling in the forest wasn’t very forgiving. But she held herself back.

He retreated back into the room and grabbed a nightshirt, throwing it over his head hastily. “It’s not very proper, is it, my lady?”

Arya shrugged and walked further into the room. She didn’t miss the way his eyes fixated on the door she was closing. _When did he start caring about what was proper_ , she asked herself bitterly. At times like these, she missed the Gendry who would wrestle with her and snap back at her when she pushed too far. “Couldn’t sleep,” she said meaningfully.

He understood immediately; she saw it in the way his face changed and shifted from confused to apprehensive to reluctance. “Best ask one of the cooks or Maester Wolkan to fix you some tea, then,” he said gruffly, avoiding her gaze.

“I can make myself a cup of tea,” she replied sharply. As soon as her voice reached her own ears, she tried to soften her tone. “Gendry,” she said quietly. “I can’t sleep.”

“What am I supposed to do about that?”

His swift rejection hurt more than she thought it would have. He’d never made her say any of this before. Why start now?

“Can I stay here tonight?” she whispered, embarrassment at having to speak the words aloud quickly becoming too much for her.

The look on his face was pained. “Arya—”

“What? It’s not like we’ve never shared a bed before. You never cared.”

“That was before.”

“Before what? You always knew who I was.”

“And what about who I am?” Gendry shot back. “I can’t—I won’t...if someone saw us, do you have any idea what they’d say?”

“What do you care?”

“Because everyone knows about Robert’s way of taking things he wouldn’t have a right to if he hadn’t been king.”

Arya furrowed her brow, put off by his wording. “What does that matter? It’s not like we’re—”

“ _Arya_.”

She was a little grateful to him for cutting her off. She had been heading in a direction she wouldn’t have been able to come back from. The idea of people assuming things about them, of rumors and whispers and gossip...it made her blush at first, but then it just made her upset that he seemed so put out by even the thought.

“Gendry.” Her voice had gone hushed. If there had been any other noise in the room, he wouldn’t have heard her. “I can’t sleep. _Please._ ”

It was the _please_ that did him in. Suddenly, she felt like they were younger once more and he finally realized what this was. This was not Arya trying to push Gendry’s buttons or attempting to stir up trouble. It seemed like now he understood what she was getting at and remembered why he’d never refused her before when she’d come to sleep at his side. It was because there were some horrors that simply did not go away even when you shut your eyes—in fact, sometimes they even returned with a vengeance. She was so unconcerned about people spreading rumors because she had that strong of a need for a feeling of security, at least for one night. Admitting weakness was something Arya hated doing, and this was no different, but Gendry had always been different.

Gendry didn’t respond. He just threw back the furs and gestured for her to get in. Timidly, Arya approached the featherbed and set her knee on the soft bed, watching his reaction. When his expression didn’t change, she moved her whole body.

“How long have you been having trouble sleeping?” Gendry asked when they were laying side by side.

Arya snorted. “Can’t remember. Probably since...since Yoren.” It hadn’t ever been the same since her father’s head had been taken from his shoulders.

“You can’t be serious. That long?”

Arya nodded.

“Haven’t you ever asked for something? A draught or potion?”

His concern was touching. Arya smiled softly at him but didn’t answer. Surely, he would be able to figure that one out on his own. She had lived with little barriers between her and Gendry, and it still turned her face red to admit she couldn’t sleep. To tell it to some maester she barely knew was near unfathomable.

Gendry didn’t press for an answer, likely having sorted it out for himself. Instead he reached out as if to touch her shoulder but drew his hand back at the last minute. “Go to sleep,” he whispered.

She did. The dreams still plagued her and it was a far cry from a restful night, but she slept all the same.

* * *

They seem to wake up at the same time.

When Arya's eyes flickered open, trying to adjust to the darkness, she almost forgot she had come to Gendry's room earlier that night. She'd been so frustrated at yet another sleepless night that she had rushed to his room without bothering to think but now, even when she was already buried under the furs and he was next to her, she felt her neck and face heat up from embarrassment. Hadn't they been through this already, hadn't she already gone through the motions of feeling ashamed and trying to push her pride away long enough to get some fucking sleep for _once_?

Apparently her body didn't think they were through just yet. She was on her side when she woke up, facing Gendry. She saw his own eyes opening blearily, taking in the sight of her laying next to him, the two of them staying right where they were, neither of them daring to speak a word.

His eyes were so intensely blue, even when there was no candle to illuminate the room and the only light was from the moon barely shining through the window.

She hoped he wasn't able to see the look of trepidation and anxiety she had all over her face.

"How are you?" he asked tentatively.

Arya shrugged halfheartedly, as best as she could with her right side buried in the featherbed and one hand tucked underneath her cheek. "Alright." Would it suffice? Probably not. She'd shown up at his room after seeing him for the first time in ten months, only keeping contact through ravens that took too long to travel, in her opinion, and practically admitted she couldn't sleep unless she was beside him.

Were people saying anything about the two of them back at Storm's End the way Sansa said they were talking here? She wanted to ask but she couldn't even get the nerve to open her mouth.

"Okay, I'll ask again, and this time you can answer honestly," Gendry said wryly. She couldn't see but she could hear in his voice the way he was smiling dryly.

"I'm _fine_ ," Arya insisted.

The sheets rustled beneath his shifting body. "Arya." He paused like he was choosing his next words carefully. "You came here to sleep but you can't answer honestly?"

What was it about her that made it so hard to speak truthfully but her actions seemed to have no problem saying everything she wanted? Even so, why couldn't he just accept that and leave her be? Why did he have to push?

Then again, if he hadn't, he wouldn't be the same Gendry she had found comfort in for so long.

Hesitantly, Arya let her hand creep across the pillows until it found his. His fingers twitched against hers when they first touched but he didn't pull away. If anything, he settled against her hand for a second before wrapping them together tightly. He squeezed for a brief moment and Arya didn't let go. When was the last time she'd breathed so easy, and when had he been the cause of it?

The better question was when had he _not_?

"You protected me for a long time," she whispered. "When we were little more than children and we barely knew what we were running from, you always protected me. I had a sword and I knew how to use it well enough, and I could read and write and I knew how to navigate better than you or Hot Pie, but you still protected me."

"I think you did more of the protecting, my lady," he answered, a soft laugh escaping from his chest.

"Who cares? You still looked after me when you could have left towards safety at any point. You knew who I was and you never told anyone, never left me on my own."

"I would have never done that," Gendry immediately said. The conviction behind his words was so strong it made Arya's hand tighten around his. "Arya, I...I cared about you then and I still care about you now. You've always been able to take care of yourself but that doesn't mean I'd let you just run off on your own. When you ran out of the cave that night I joined the Brotherhood...when I heard about the Red Woman...I thought you were dead the whole time and I couldn't—I felt like I failed you."

It was the first time they'd actually spoken about it since they'd first reunited so long ago, when battle was coming down upon Winterfell and he spent most of his time in the forge arming soldiers for a fight they were all so sure they would lose.

"I thought you just didn't want to be around me anymore. I was on my way to Riverrun with the Brotherhood and you figured you didn't need to watch after me anymore."

"Arya, I'm so—"

"No, let me finish," she cut off. "I thought you were my pack. And maybe it was wrong to just assume you'd want to serve under Robb but I'd never had a real friend besides Jon until you. I just thought you would be there because we'd already been through so much. _Too_ much, honestly. I guess I'm sorry for not thinking you wouldn't want to serve under just another king. He was my brother and he was one of the best men I ever knew, but _you_ didn't know that." She took a deep breath. "But that doesn't mean it didn't still hurt when you said you were leaving. I just thought I was someone you felt responsible for."

Gendry laughed again. "I _did_ ," he said. "But it was because I was your _friend_."

Arya looked up at his face. Even when it was still dark and the sun was nowhere near rising in the sky, she had it memorized. "Are you still?" she asked softly.

Gendry nodded. "Always. I'll be around to send you letters for a long time."

It was too much for her to handle. Arya didn't know if she wanted to stay or run, cry or laugh, scream or sob from relief. She felt like she was dumping all of her weight on Gendry's shoulders and it was so far from right but she couldn't stop the shudder that ran through her whole body. Her hand gripped his even tighter and her other hand found his shoulder, reveling in the way it tensed under her touch and hoping that he would touch her back. She couldn't expect him to bear the load of everything Arya carried in her heart: All the grief and pain and the emptiness that somehow seemed to weigh her down so heavily, the guilt for the lives she'd taken, the lack of purpose she felt, the way she felt like a ghost in her own home because it seemed like she was surrounded by them. Why should he have to carry the fact that Arya hadn't felt happiness or peace in months, years, just because he was the only one she could open up to about it? She couldn't do that to him.

"Do you promise?" she asked shakily.

He nodded again and his free hand reached up to touch her cheek, the very tips of his fingertips tracing her jaw. "Promise."

When was the last time someone had made her a promise and kept it? Could she trust him? The idea of it scared her even as she knew he would try and keep it as best as he could.

Arya shifted closer to him on the mattress, inching her neck up just a bit so she was closer to where she wanted to reach. Her lips were just a breath away from his when he pulled away. "What are you doing?" he asked, panic lacing his voice. But he was still holding her hand. His hand was still cradling her cheek.

She leaned forward again. "Please," she whispered. She'd said that word quite a lot in the past few hours since he'd arrived, but it seemed to do well for her because he didn't pull away when Arya brushed her lips against his. It was a soft kiss, a gentle meeting that neither of them had ever experienced. Silently, she wondered if he'd had any girls after they'd been separated. The thought made her press her lips against his harder.

She didn't know what she was doing at all and Gendry seemed to realize that rather quickly. He let go of her hand to cup the back of her head in his palm and guide her mouth against his. _He isn't pulling away_ , she told herself, trying to drill it into her brain before she panicked and convinced herself that this was a bad idea because _why_ would Gendry ever want someone like her? Instead, Gendry let her kiss him back on her own time, getting used to the way they fit together. He explored her in much of the same way, gentle and careful touches over their nightclothes because they both seemed too nervous to try moving underneath. Not like she didn't want to. Arya smoothed her hand against his shoulder under the nightshirt he'd put on and he grabbed her wrist. Arya jerked back, her eyes opening— _when had they fallen shut?_ —and searching his face for any indication that he didn't want her. Was she not good? Was this not what he wanted? Had he changed his mind. But he only stroked her hair, scanning her face much like she was doing to him, concern showing plainly on his expression.

"Do you know..." He paused, started over. "Arya, what do you want?"

That was the question of her whole lifetime, wasn't it?

The truth, scary as it was when it was glaring her right in the face, was that she didn't know. She wanted peace and happiness and home and safety, things she hadn't felt in ages and remembered only in brief snapshots. She wanted Gendry to hold her, touch her, kiss her until she forgot what was waiting for her outside his chambers. What _was_ waiting for her that was so horrifying? The Night King was gone, Daenerys gone, for better or worse Arya would never know. Bran sat in King's Landing while Sansa sat right here. Jon was safe and alive. But the real horror was the way they'd all changed. Sansa didn't seem to process the way Winterfell no longer felt like _Winterfell_ anymore. Jon spoke to her now, but he still didn't speak to anyone else. She couldn't bear the sight of crowds, or anyone for that matter. There was no danger waiting to knock them sideways or tear their throats out but everything she'd overcome was still hanging over like a cloud and that was the worst of it. When she was here, in Gendry's arms, Arya barely felt it.

Was that what Jon had felt for Daenerys? He'd loved her. Arya believed him when he said it. She didn't know if what she felt right now was love, but she knew that she couldn't say it until she was sure.

"Arya." Gendry's voice brought her back. "What do you want?" he repeated

So she said the only thing she knew to be true.

"Comfort," she breathed. "I don't care... _how_. We can go back to sleep or you can kiss me, I don't care. I just need to feel..."

She needed to feel safe.

So he made her feel safe.

He kissed her again and she kissed him back. He taught her how to do it properly and she tried not to think about how he learned what he liked. When she pulled back for the second time, it wasn't out of fear or anxiety but to pull his shirt from his body. The next time Gendry asked her a question, it was to make sure she was alright with what they were doing and the only answer she had for him was to kiss him harder than she had before.

Arya doesn't know what to expect. All she knows is that she should have done this sooner and whatever feeling she'd had pulling at her gut when she'd receive one of his ravens only intensified tenfold when she had his hands on her. She could have sworn Gendry whispered that she was beautiful when his lips traced mindless shapes across her collarbone and every time her eyes slipped close of their own accord, she had to fight to keep them open. She didn't want to miss this, she didn't want to miss him when she'd finally been reunited with him after so long.

When had she turned soft?

 _No_ , Arya told herself as she settled flat on her back, her small clothes discarded in some corner of the featherbed, Gendry's eyes memorizing what he could with nothing but the moon giving them light to see. Why did relief and comfort make her soft, or weak? Why did affection for a friend she'd trusted more than anything lessen her? Whatever it was between them, Arya didn't know. She didn't think she'd be able to handle an answer, either. All she knew for certain was that she was glad he was here and she was glad he hadn't turned her away.

He was gentle with her when his fingers entered her, catching her lips in a kiss when she shifted uncomfortably the first few seconds. This, she didn't know how to adjust to. She'd never done this before but Gendry tried his best to find what she liked when neither of them knew what that was just yet. It feels familiar and new all at once. Familiar because the person she was with was a part of her for so long, even after he'd gone, and new because that twisting heat curling up in Arya's core was unusual and entirely welcome by her.

"Are you okay?" Gendry asked quietly, his voice strained slightly. When she rolled her hips up towards his in experimental curiosity, she felt the way he'd hardened against her thigh and sighed in satisfaction at the groan he tried to muffle against her shoulder.

"Yes," she responded, running her hands through his hair. "Please, keep going."

If she wasn't so clouded by lust and longing and something else she didn't know how to identify, she'd try to make sense of all of this. But maybe that was the beauty in all of it. For once, for the first time in years, Arya couldn't be bothered to try and make sense of anything outside of the sensations he was drawing out of her. Every time he cupped her breast in his hand, pushed another finger inside her, kissed her lips or her cheek or her neck, her entire world narrowed right down to the feeling of his skin against hers and she couldn't care less about whatever was happening aside from this.

Arya isn't quite sure what changes, or when, but something shifts and suddenly they're moving together in a frenzy. Her hand is reaching down to wrap around his cock and he's using one hand to guide her while the other is still stroking against the juncture between her thighs. There isn't time for Gendry to ask her if she's alright again but the enthusiastic way her body responds to his is enough encouragement for him to continue. If he paused at any point, Arya would push harder against him, tightening her grip until he choked on a laugh at her impatience.

It was over far too soon. Her vision goes white for the briefest of seconds and distantly, she hears her name fall from Gendry's lips while she lets out a stuttered cry. After they were both spent, breathing heavily with her head resting on his chest, he brushed a kiss against the crown of her head, his lips mussing up her hair just slightly. "I need some comfort, sometimes, too," he admitted quietly, and she squeezed his hand tightly before they fell asleep once more.

* * *

"Are you with Gendry Baratheon?"

Sansa's question didn't shock Arya all that much. She pitched her voice as low as possible so only Arya could hear, but she still debated pretending she hadn't heard her.

Her sister didn't repeat the question, though. She knew that Arya had heard well enough and was simply waiting for the answer.

"No."

It was true, sort of. When he was here, they found comfort in each other. When he left, they would resume their letters and pretend they were fine. Arya had long stopped imagining a world where she even resembled _fine_.

"Tell me the truth."

Arya rolled her eyes. "I'm still a maiden, don't worry." That was true, too. It had been a week since he'd arrived and Arya had spent every single night in his bed but he'd refused her every single time she tilted her hips up towards his, practically begging him to enter her. He made her see stars with his hands and his mouth and she did the same for him but Gendry always clenched his teeth and turned his head away when she tried to bring him inside her.

"I would," he'd told her the third night, one finger dancing around her nipple while she lay beside him. "But I...my father had too many bastards and he never gave a single shit about any of them."

She shifted uncomfortably next to him. "I can drink moon tea," she tried to compromise, but it was a lost cause. She thought of Jon, growing up as a bastard and always feeling like he had no place in the world.

Gendry kissed her softly. "I can't," he told her sternly, and Arya never asked about it again.

Sansa was trying her best to glare at Arya but she'd always been better at that. "Arya, you can't just let people talk like they do."

"Why not? Who cares what I do?"

"It's not _you_ ," Sansa said. "It's about Gendry."

Arya turned away. She wondered if Sansa would ever approach her with the idea of marriage. She couldn't imagine it anymore. As far as she was concerned, she'd stay at Winterfell until she died. The thought used to make her happy, content to imagine her life spent here forever. Now, she didn't what she felt. But Gendry would have to marry soon, she knew that. He'd need an heir, and there had to be ladies waiting to marry a Baratheon. Even a legitimized one, it was still an honor to marry one of the high lords of Westeros.

"No one knows anything."

"People suspect."

"People have been suspecting affairs since the beginning of time. I can have any kind of examination I want whenever I want, I've still never had sex with anyone."

"Do you deny that you're with him?"

"No," Arya said bluntly. "I'm in his bed every single night. We sleep better when we're next to each other."

Sansa narrowed her eyes. "Do you love him?"

Arya had no idea. She knew that ever since he got here, she felt more at peace than she had in a while. She knew that she liked spending time with him. She knew that when he kissed her and touched her, she felt more whole than she'd ever felt in her life. But she also knew that there were still too many nightmares. Still too much emptiness. Still too much anger that she couldn't drag Gendry into. He had his own problems and no doubt his own traumas. He didn't need to deal with hers just because they ebbed away slightly when she was around him.

For once, Sansa wasn't looking at her as the Lady of Winterfell. She was looking at her as her sister. Arya didn't think she ever felt like she had a sister even as a child. Was this her way of trying to reach out, to try and regain her trust?

"If you love him," Sansa continued after waiting for Arya's response and gaining nothing, "then you should go with him."

"I don't love him," Arya said. At least, not fully, not yet.

Sansa looked her up and down and tilted her head to the side. "You don't not love him."

* * *

He found her down in the crypts.

She was staring up at Lyanna's stone face, her hand gripping the pommel of Needle until her knuckles felt like they were going to tear. "They say she was the most beautiful woman in the North. Possibly the whole Seven Kingdoms."

"I heard you look a lot like her," Gendry replied. Arya didn't dare look at him, not when she knew she wouldn’t be able to handle whatever expression she’d find on his face. "It must be nice," he continued after a brief moment of silence. "Being home. You fought so hard to get here."

Arya bit her tongue to keep from screaming. "It's starting to feel a lot more like a graveyard than a home these days."

She left him in the crypts and they don't speak for the rest of the day.

* * *

The morning Gendry was set to depart Winterfell, they were standing on the same balcony that Arya had tried to spy on him from when he'd arrived. Davos was standing down below with Jon as they helped prepare the horses to leave. Arya wasn't looking at Gendry and he had his eyes trained straight ahead.

"Have a safe journey back home," Arya said.

"I'm sure it'll be fine. Bit bumpy, but we'll get there."

"Been through worse, haven't you?" Arya reminded him, an eyebrow quirked up. He offered her a grim smile but nothing else.

They fell back into silence, uncomfortable and tense. She wanted to bring up the night they'd had together but Arya couldn't find the courage to say anything. She had too many things to tell him, things that didn't even have anything to do with him, and that was possibly the worst part. Gendry didn't deserve to be bombarded with her guilt and nightmares. All she could think of were excuses about why she was so distant, excuses that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her. It was _her_ , all her, and she couldn't put that on him.

"You should come to Storm's End one day," he said suddenly.

Arya turned to face him but he still wasn't looking at _her_. "Should I?"

"Yes. Weather's a lot nicer."

"I'm a northerner. The cold is for me."

"What about a visit?" Now Gendry looked at her, but she wished he hadn't. He looked so earnest that she wanted to avoid his eyes, but she kept her gaze steady. "I came here, didn't I?" _Twice,_ she told herself.

Arya gave him a sad smile. "Yeah. You did."

Another stretch of rigid quiet was pulled taut around the two of them like a thick cloak in the middle of summer. There was a part of Arya that desperately wanted him to just go but she also wanted to ask him what was on his mind, to bother him with questions like she'd done when they were younger and knew nothing but protecting each other on the road.

"Arya," Gendry bit out.

She shut her eyes. "What?"

He didn't speak for a few beats, his next words coming out hoarse. "Where did you _go_?"

"Braavos," she answered automatically, knowing that’s not what he meant at all.

" _Arya_ —"

"I don't want to talk about it," she said. " _Please_."

He didn't respond, which she was grateful for. She should have just left, but that same part of her that wanted to ask what he was thinking was telling her to stay on that balcony until Davos called him down and his horse disappeared out of sight, far away from Winterfell's gates and far away from her.

"Is this the last time I'll see you?" he asked eventually.

Arya shook her head. "I hope not."

"I won't push you—"

"Then don't."

"I've missed you," he admitted.

"I've missed you, too," she whispered.

Gendry put his hand on her shoulder and silently asked her to turn towards him. "Would you visit Storm's End?" he repeated.

"Some day," Arya promised.

His eyes fell to her lips and then back up to her eyes. "Would you stay?" he asked, his voice hushed.

Arya froze, her eyes closing again as she thought of the implications of what he was asking of her. A yes would not be hard to say, barely a syllable, but the word got stuck in her throat on the way out. She couldn't imagine the idea of making Gendry live with someone as lost as she was. To go with him, to _stay with him_ , she'd be tying him to a life with someone he'd grow to resent. It wasn’t right to shackle him to deal with her fits of restlessness, her bouts of silence, the way she shook at night and could never seem to stop. After everything, Gendry had earned the right to someone whole and lovely, someone who could love him the way he should be loved.

And she still couldn't say no.

So she did what she'd grown so good at doing, and said nothing.

He took her silence as an answer and faced the courtyard again, his expression unreadable. "They're telling me to take a wife." The thought sent chills down her spine. "I don't feel much like _taking_ anyone, truthfully. I'd much rather have someone who wanted to be there."

Arya let her hand brush across his cheek and turned him to look at her, standing up on her toes to kiss him as softly as she could. His hand immediately moved to her hip while the other settled against her hair, but their kiss was as chaste as possible, barely a whisper.

"I can't be the person you deserve right now," Arya told him when they parted.

"One day?" He had such hope written across his expression, plain as day, that Arya's heart clenched hard enough that it _hurt_.

 _Oh_ , she thought, startled by the sudden jolt in her chest. _I thought you'd gone_.

"You’ve earned better than waiting around for gods know how long."

A ghost of a smile whispered across his lips. "You deserve better than to drown yourself in loneliness just because you think it's what you've earned."

Gendry left Arya on the balcony with a final kiss pressed to her forehead. The people working around the courtyard pretended they hadn't seen the way they'd embraced, softly and sadly, their eyes turned to their work around the grounds. But Davos watched Gendry carefully as they rode off and Jon was staring at Arya like she'd lost her mind.

She didn't meet his eyes as she walked back to her chambers, but for the first time in years…

She felt something she thought she recognized as hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one has come to an end and I know it's a bit of a heavy fic but I hope you're still enjoying it!


	2. Chapter 2

> _Daydreamer_   
>  _With eyes that make you melt_   
>  _He lends his coat for shelter_   
>  _Plus he’s there for you_   
>  _When he shouldn’t be_   
>  _But he stays all the same_   
>  _Waits for you_   
>  _Then sees you through_
> 
> _There’s no way I_   
>  _Could describe him_   
>  _What I’ll say is_   
>  _Just what I’m hoping for_   
>  _But I will find him sitting on my doorstep_   
>  _Waiting for a surprise_   
>  _And he will feel like he’s been there for hours_   
>  _And I can tell that he’ll be there for life_
> 
> —Daydreamer, Adele

* * *

The letters increase in frequency after Gendry leaves and Arya assumes the rumors about the two of them pick up with a renewed vigor as well, but honestly, she can’t be bothered to care that much.

There's a certain familiarity and intimacy that carries its way through their words, something that hadn’t been there before. Their parting conversation had been hard for both of them, but it had somehow offered both closure and hope for a future at the same time and it gave their letters a deeper meaning. Arya had thought the letters they’d exchanged prior to Gendry’s visit had been familiar enough but the weight that had been lifted from her shoulders after he’d left made her realize they’d been the exact opposite. His first time at Winterfell had not been kind enough to offer them time to actually reacquaint themselves with each other—his second visit had given them the opportunity they didn’t even know they’d been missing out on. It makes the letters seem warmer now. Arya would be lying if she said she would be remiss if she didn’t respond in kind.

The first time a letter is placed in front of her plate after Gendry departs Winterfell, Arya smiles.

It nearly makes her jaw hurt. Tight-lipped smiles of acknowledgment and false smirks had adorned her face for so long that Arya had almost forgotten what it felt like to be caught off guard by a real, involuntary smile.

She stands from the table and clutches the raven to her chest, looking down at Jon sitting beside her. He’s eyeing the letter with suspicion, barely paying attention to the toast and eggs in front of him. Arya half expects him to try and take the letter before she can read it herself.

“I'll see you after breakfast,” she tells him before walking out the doors. She spares no words for Sansa on her way out to the godswood, her fingers already fumbling with the wax seal. She barely looks up as she walks out but she doesn’t run into anyone and soon, she has her back pressed up against a tree, her eyes scanning over the words so fast that she starts to regret it by the time she reaches the end, cursing herself for reading it so quickly and knowing that she now has to wait who knew how long to hear from him again.

Arya sighed, wondering if Gendry did the same with her letters. She put the thought away for another day and went back to the beginning, already trying to memorize the words.

_Dear Arya…_

* * *

The hole in her chest was still there. It taunted her, poking at the edges of her ribcage like a ghost living inside her body that was reluctant to let her go. Arya had no word for this deep, unending sadness that she couldn't seem to crawl her way out of.

"You need a good sleeping draught, Lady Arya," Maester Wolken told her one evening.

But sleeping draughts did her no good. The one thing that eased her sleep was Gendry's solid presence beside her in bed, but even that wasn't enough to stop the nightmares. And though he had been there to comfort her when she woke up (not that Arya would ever admit to that, of course), the emptiness was still there. She still felt lost. She still felt like the world would not notice if she simply disappeared.

There were days when she contemplated it. The idea of dying did not seem all that interesting to Arya—she'd fought too long and too hard to ever give up that easily. She'd heard the tales of women throwing themselves off of towers and hanging themselves from tree branches. She did not want to be another story passed around a tavern. The world wasn't changing all that much so no one was making an effort to give those women what they'd deserved, and Arya refused to be treated the same. She would live if only to spite the people who would turn her life into her death and forget the rest about her.

No, death did not hold Arya's interest. But she thought about disappearing quite a lot. Buying a ship of her own and getting herself a crew so she could sail off to some undiscovered part of the world. It only made the hole grow wider. She felt like a piece of parchment that someone was holding a candle to, and each time one of these thoughts crossed her mind, they burned her just a bit more.

It took a long time for Arya to realize that she was tired of not wanting to die only out of spite. She wanted to live. She wanted to live for something other than a determination not to be buried. She wanted to live for herself. That had to be a good enough reason, wasn't it? But no matter how hard she tried, the hole only got wider and wider.

Arya spent her days lying in bed, finding it hard to breathe, and wondered what would happen when the hole inevitably burned right through her entire soul.

* * *

Arya began leaning too heavily on the knowledge that Gendry's letters would never stop coming. She would look forward to the rest of the day only when the maester told her a raven had arrived for her from Storm's End that morning and placed a scroll in her hand.

It was exactly why she had told Gendry she couldn't be his yet.

One day, while writing a reply to his latest letter, Arya glanced back at the jewelry box that did not hold a single gem. Instead, there was a stack of letters that dated all the way back to the very first time Gendry had ever sent her one. She'd told him that to be the type of person who deserved him, she could not rely on him to make her whole again. That included his letters. Just because it wasn't his physical presence, it was still very much here. Always with her. Covering her face with her hands, Arya wondered when things had gotten so terrible. She wondered if this was what Jon felt like, living day by day, not knowing what his purpose was anymore. Her list was gone. There was no war to fight. Winterfell was safe with the Starks back where they supposedly belonged. So what was left for her to live for?

_Dear Gendry,_

_I'm sorry my letter has taken so long to get to you. I've been thinking about our last meeting at Winterfell before you left. I told you one day without knowing when that might be, and your patience is not something I require. If you ever choose to move along, I would never tell you otherwise_

Arya burned the letter without finishing it. Everything about it was stupid. She did not want to bring up Winterfell, she did not want to talk about that conversation. Winterfell itself did not feel like home anymore, she'd told him as much in the crypts while looking up at her aunt Lyanna and wondering how things had so quickly gone to shit.

_Dear Gendry,_

_I'm glad to hear Storm's End is starting to run smoothly. I'll take it my advice to you has gone over well. It's nice to know that I, as I've proven many times, am usually right about these things. And with trade beginning to pick up again..._

* * *

In the time since Gendry's visit, their letters had increased in both frequency and intimacy, and suddenly, they felt too stiff.

They grew shorter. They grew formal. Arya traced the words across the parchment with her eyes and the tips of her fingers and felt like she was going to cry. She had been the one to shift the tone from friendly to lukewarm. She couldn't blame Gendry for following in her footsteps. She had been the one to ignore the more meaningful parts of his letters and focusing instead on the boring, mundane parts that he always added in just to keep things neutral enough that no one would suspect anything untoward between the two of them.

Arya didn't give a shit about trade in Storm's End. What she cared about was whether or not Gendry was happy when he'd told her how frustratingly underwhelming it was being lord of Storm's End.

It was strange, not knowing what she wanted and still feeling like she was missing an integral part of herself. She missed the determination and resilience that had flooded her veins, knowing exactly what she wanted to do and, more than that, doing what needed to be done to achieve it. Now that there was nothing left to be afraid of, what reason did she have for sticking around? It was the uselessness that bothered her the most. Had she been necessary before? Arya didn't _know_ that she would one day kill the Night King. She hadn't exactly been necessary before.

Except, she had been, in some ways. Her skills had been put to use, whether it was for good or bad. She didn't really like to think about that. But she'd had a purpose before. And now she was back in Winterfell like when she was a child, only she _wasn't_ a child anymore, was she? She was, like it or not, a woman grown. There was no Septa Mordane to fill up her day with mind-numbing lessons. There wasn't a cushion for anyone to force her to embroider or a stretch of fabric for her to try and make into a dress. There wasn't even a Syrio Forel to teach her water dancing anymore. And any time she wanted to train, everyone was always so careful around her, so cautious. No one wanted to go hard on her, as if she hadn't proved herself enough already.

So Arya had no purpose. She had letters to sift through and wait for. She despised that being the one thing tying her down.

Her next letter took a long time to compose. At the end, she wrote Gendry a postscript apologizing for taking so long. Seeing the words at the bottom of the parchment, _apologizing_ for the lateness, made her so angry that she burned the letter and wrote him a new one. When she sent a raven off to Storm's End, it was only signed with the four letters of her name and nothing else.

* * *

_Dear Arya,_

_You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve finally begun heeding your advice. My advisors and counselors have gotten too impatient with me to bother with niceties any longer. It’s not the sort of politics I’m used to, but it’s not like I knew anything about it before. Things are done a lot more secretly when you’re noble. I’m getting the hang of it, but I’m not sure I like it all that much._

_But your advice was still good. They’re listening to me now. They’re following orders. Not all the time, but most of the time. It’s going to take a bit of work to get them to respect me instead of just listening because they don’t want to end up cast out. I don’t think I’d have the stomach to do that, though. I suppose I’d have to, though, or else no one would listen to me at all, wouldn’t they? Davos says it’s all part of the learning process, but I’m bored of learning. I want to take action. It’s frustrating and lonely in Storm’s End and it’s hard to focus on any of the good that’s being done when I don’t get to actually see any of the progress myself. I don’t like hearing about it from reports. I don’t think I’ll have an easy night until I see any of the changes with my own eyes._

_If I’m this annoyed while taking on my own duties, I wonder how you’re faring in the cold of Winterfell with nothing permanent to keep you busy. Do you still train? Or do you sew and sing songs like all the other ladies do now? I know you don’t like to sit still for too long, and you know if you ever get too restless, Storm’s End has many empty bedrooms where you could sleep if you decide to come for a visit. I wouldn’t mind seeing you again, and as I made the journey last time, it’s only fair for you to do it._

_Yours, Gendry_

“How’s Gendry?”

Arya looked up from the letter and her eyes met Jon’s, standing over her with his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He still didn’t talk very much. His eyes hadn’t lightened up in months. Arya could barely remember the last time she’d seen him smile. But he spoke to her sometimes. She even saw him send a raven off to Sam a month ago. It must have been a sad thing to read, and even sadder to write, but at least he had done it. If that was what progress looked like, then what must Arya resemble, not even inching forward?

“He’s doing well. Apparently, politics doesn’t interest him very much.”

“I don’t know what Daenerys was thinking, making him lord of Storm’s End.”

Her neck nearly cracked with the speed at which she looked up, her lips parting in slight amazement. It was the first time Jon had said Daenerys’s name since she’d died, at least in her presence. His mouth was set in a hard line as if he knew what she was thinking, and Arya decided that now was not the time to bring that up right now.

“I assume she was only trying to keep her own claim to the throne.”

“Would Gendry even want it?”

“He doesn’t even want to be a lord. He’d be miserable as a king. But she couldn’t know that.”

 _Not when that throne was the driving force behind all her actions_ , Arya added silently. She knew better than to say it aloud. The words were true, but she didn’t think them with any malice. Not anymore. The simple truth of it was that Daenerys had only had the idea of sitting on the Iron Throne to hold onto for years and years. Even Arya couldn’t begrudge her that. She wondered if she had truly believed anyone else with a possible claim would really attempt to take it from her. The only ones were Jon and Gendry, two of the people who wanted it least.

It remained a mystery to Arya even now. A mystery that would never be solved. If she would have been able to get any answers out of Daenerys, what would she have even asked? The only time they’d spoken had been after the battle with the White Walkers, and she had only thanked Arya for saving their lives. Not for giving her the opportunity to continue fighting for the Iron Throne, not for saving her men who would still die for her in her war. But for saving their lives. For giving them another chance at life. It had been over a year since Jon had put a knife through Daenerys’s heart, and still Arya couldn’t tell if the woman he had killed had been the woman he bent the knee to and swore he loved.

“Is he coming to visit Winterfell again?”

Arya blinked a few times in confusion, wondering if she’d missed something. It took her a bit longer to realize Jon was still talking about Gendry. Did he avoid thinking about Daenerys at all costs? Or had he thought about her so much that he no longer turned the same questions over and over in his head like she did? Arya shook her head. “He tells me that it’s my turn to make the journey this time. He’s been to Winterfell twice now. He doesn’t like the cold that much.”

“He spends his time in the forge anyway, doesn’t he?”

She bit her lip. “I don’t think he spends much time there at Storm’s End,” she mumbled, mostly to herself.

Jon narrowed his eyes at her and Arya pretended not to notice.

He had never asked her about what had happened between her and Gendry during his visit. He’d seen them kiss on the balcony when they said their goodbyes. Arya hadn’t met his eyes after Gendry left. She’d purposefully ignored any chance to speak about it. Jon, to his credit, hadn’t pushed her for any answers, but perhaps his patience was wearing thin. She was surprised he had been able to hold out on asking her any questions at all for this long.

One of the things Arya valued most was her privacy. Her friendship with Gendry granted more privacy than most. People knew they exchanged letters frequently enough, and her family was aware that they had protected each other on the road in the beginning of the war when the Starks had been scattered to the wind. That was all. She relished the silence of it all, loved how no one knew anything. When people gained too much information but enough, rumors started. And they were rumors that could destroy families and houses. But no one cared if Arya Stark sent ravens to Gendry Baratheon. Not anymore, at least.

“You know Gendry well, don’t you?” Jon asked.

“We do. He protected me for a long time.”

“And you protected him?”

Arya’s lips quirked upwards. “I did.”

Jon took a step forward and Arya automatically clutched the letter tighter to her chest. He didn’t miss it, but he said nothing about it. “Arya.” Jon’s voice had taken on that stern, steady tone that reminded her too much of her father. “Would you be angry with me if I told you to be careful?”

“That depends,” she answered.

“On?”

“What you’re telling me to be careful _of_.”

Jon cleared his throat and pursed his lips. “I could tell you to be careful of what you write in those letters. Ravens have been shot down before, and there are spies everywhere, even now. I could tell you to be careful with his emotions. And yours.”

“And why would I need to be careful with anybody’s emotions?”

He sighed in exasperation. Arya didn’t blame him. She was pushing him on purpose, even knowing that when he eventually spoke bluntly, she would fire back at him and storm off.

“Don’t be difficult. I’m only speaking to you of this out of concern.”

This time, Arya’s expression softened enough for Jon to see that she wasn’t going to play any games with him anymore, but she still wouldn’t respond to his statements. “You don’t have to be concerned for me.”

“I did see you two, you know?”

“I know.”

“Do you love him?”

Arya looked at the godswood, pondering the question. “Sansa asked me the same question when he was here. I told her no.”

“Is that true?”

The letter in her hands seemed to pulse with the words Gendry had written. The words he’d written for _her_.

“I don’t not love him.”

* * *

With the formality of their correspondence increasing with each letter, Arya began to doubt herself.

It had been enough time since Bran took his place as King of Westeros that talks of marriage alliances began to form. Sansa was refusing every proposal that came her way, but it wasn't her sister that Arya thought about.

Apparently, no one thought about how Arya Stark always loved the tales of warrior queens who never bowed to anyone, least of all a man. The warrior queens who didn't marry, who rode off into a glorious battle and came out the greatest victor.

She was a lot wiser to believe the tales, but she still couldn't imagine marrying anyone.

"It's a good match," Sansa urged one afternoon.

Arya rolled her eyes. "So why don't you marry him?" she asked.

"He isn't a high lord," her sister said, a diplomat until the very end.

"Oh, and if he was?" Arya said. "You would accept?"

At that, Sansa didn't answer. Her lips were pressed together tightly, her eyes struggling to meet Arya's. "I don't want to marry someone without a say."

"If you had a say, you wouldn't get married at all," Sansa pointed out.

"Is that so terrible? You aren't accepting anyone's hand."

"There are...things that need to be settled in the North before I can even consider accepting anyone's hand. I can't just accept for an alliance. I need to think about what will happen to Winterfell, and—"

"Sansa," Arya interrupted. "No one gives a shit if you decide to stay unmarried for the rest of your life. All I'm asking is that you don't send me off instead."

Sansa lost her internal battle and broke eye contact. They hadn't spoken in what felt like months. Arya had yet to feel like she could trust her sister again, with anything. The Stark name had been through a lot over the years, along with each child who bore it, and they had all come out on the other side much worse. Arya had returned to Winterfell a stranger. She'd been reunited with a sister she only recognized in beauty. Her younger brother was a shadow of his old self, while her half-brother who was not her brother at all but her cousin was a man returned from the dead who was haunted by past deeds and could not escape his own reflection.

"Is politics the only thing that takes up your thoughts?" Arya continued when Sansa gave no response.

"I don't have time for much else."

"Not even considering your family?"

It was nearing a subject they had only spoken about once, and Arya had been the one to say she didn't wish to discuss it. Sansa's apology for telling Tyrion about Jon had come out of guilt, but Arya couldn't look past her own anger to detect the sincerity. Was it there, deep down? Would Arya be able to see it if she stopped being so angry all the time? Would she ever stop being angry? About Sansa, Jon, Gendry, herself, the entire world—when would the anger finally recede?

"Arya, don't."

She stood up from her chair and brushed off her breeches. "Alright. I'm done with lunch. You can send my refusal tonight."

* * *

She decides to go to Storm's End.

Gendry finds several veiled ways of inviting her to his home, and he always puts one in his letter. Every single time. He tells her that the weather is beautiful there and she should really get out of the cold for once. The godswood is nice, and it's large enough (nothing will ever compare to Winterfell, but they both ignore that) and she really would like it. The journey is quite peaceful with the right company, and wouldn't it be nice to see something other than Winterfell's castle for once?

Arya had fought her way back home because she was tired of seeing everything _but_ Winterfell's castle.

And when she'd finally returned, it no longer felt like home.

In the end, he wears her down, of course. She hadn't ignored his obvious hints and nudges because she didn't want to visit, or see him. But she'd been scared of what would happen if she went. Would he be glad to see her even after the way they'd left things? Would he expect her to come to him whole and happy like she'd said he deserved? Was he thinking that she would visit with the intent of asking her to stay again, and she would accept the offer?

The fear was what had held her back until his latest letter.

_Arya,_

_You seem to be willfully ignoring my invitation the last few letters, so I'll ask plainly: Come to Storm's End for a week or two. I'm not saying you'd like it here just for the benefit of having your company once more, though that is a big part of it. I'm saying it because it's true. You'd be surprised how similar Storm's End is to Winterfell. It wouldn't feel that far from home, except you wouldn't be freezing your ass off day and night. That would do you some good, you know._

_I'd love to have your help for a short time, as well, if you wouldn't mind. People are listening to me now, but that doesn't mean they always do, and if you gave anyone half an opinion of yours, you'd have them all scared straight into never stepping out of line again. I'm sure you'd love that, too._

_I hope to see you soon,  
Gendry_

When she told Sansa and Jon that she would be going to Storm's End in one week's time later that night at dinner, they both looked at her with curious looks on their faces. They didn't exchange a look, but Arya assumed that had more to do with tension than anything else.

"In a week?" Sansa repeated.

"Yes."

"For how long?" Jon asked, squinting at her.

Arya shrugged. "I'm not sure. Two weeks, maybe two and a half? He says he wants some more advice on handling his advisors and counsellors."

"And you have to travel all the way to Storm's End to assist him, when you've been doing it fine through your letters?"

The look Arya gave her sister was brittle and stiff. "We're friends," she reminded her.

Neither Sansa nor Jon were dumb enough to question her further, and Arya left dinner early to begin packing.

* * *

Arya refused to admit it, but she liked Storm’s End. It was vast and open, providing enough ground for her to roam whenever she wished with hundreds of places for her to hide out if she ever felt the need to disappear. The people were nice enough, and the majority of them listened when she told them not to call her _my lady_. It took a bit before they began calling her _Arya_ , though. For a long time, she was just _Miss_ to a lot of them. The food was decent but Arya’s appetite hadn’t ever truly returned to her ever since her days on the run, so she didn’t mind all that much. It was loud, though, louder than Winterfell. Arya didn’t know if she would ever stop being so disturbed by noise. She didn’t know if there would ever come a time when the sight of crowds didn’t make her want to fade away in the background. Her visit, however, did not require her presence at all times during the feasts. Gendry never knocked on her door and told her to come. She was grateful for that. He had told her she could roam wherever she wished, as long as she didn’t leave the grounds without a guard. He’d taken a hit to the shoulder for that, but he didn’t do anything except laugh.

The day she arrived, Gendry was there to greet her with a wide smile on his face and a promise that the feast they were having that night wouldn’t be in her honor. She saw the way Davos rolled his eyes at them and knew that he was lying but she chose not to say anything. All she said was that she was tired from the long journey and she would like to be led to her rooms.

Arya hoped it wasn’t her imagination when she noticed Gendry’s eyes spark up just a bit at the mention of her room for her stay. She hoped her presence wouldn’t be unwelcome when she inevitably made her way to his chambers later that night. The entire journey to Storm’s End, Arya had debated with herself for hours on end, trying to decide if it was worth it to approach him the way she had so many months ago. Would he reject her this time? Would he stand aside and let her into his room? Would he kiss her again or would he insist that this time, they only slept?

At the feast, Arya sat near Gendry but there were three lords in between them. Davos had chosen to sit next to her, something she found odd when she’d assumed he would take his usual seat on Gendry’s other side, but he had taken a place beside her and there he was, eating almost as silently as she was.

“He’s getting a lot better at the whole lord thing,” Davos commented at one point.

Arya raised one eyebrow, turning away from her soup and facing Davos. “Is he?” she asked, not offering anything further. If he wanted to open a conversation and head down the path she was expecting him to, she would offer him no help.

“Yes. He even knows how to deal with his counsellors better than he had before. He’s winning more arguments than losing.”

“By how much.”

Davos smiled. “Enough.”

Davos had seen the two of them on the balcony at Winterfell. He’d seen Arya bring her hand up to Gendry’s neck so she could kiss him. He’d seen the way they had stood so close together, whispering in hushed voices so no one around could hear them. He’d seen them glance back at each other as Gendry rode off, neither of them sure when they would see each other again and under what circumstances.

Arya got the feeling that Davos was feeling very protective of his lord at the moment.

“He says it’s thanks to the advice you’ve given him over the past year,” Davos continued.

She shrugged off the compliment. “He just needed to be guided in the right direction. Gendry’s a leader, but he didn’t grow up with any of the leadership skills they usually teach lords. He’s more of a hands-on kind of person.”

“Is he?”

Arya stared right back at Davos unblinkingly and waited for him to turn away first.

“It’s nice to see him making the type of progress Storm’s End needs right now,” Davos finally said after a tense silence.

“Yes, it is. It’s nice to know that there are lords out there who care about the wellbeing of their people.”

“Gendry was one of them. He was at the very bottom. It’s nice to know he hasn’t forgotten.”

Gendry never would. Arya knew that. Aside from the deep scars his own childhood had left him with, he wasn’t the type of person who could so easily be given a title and a fancy new castle and forget all of the struggling and pain and suffering and strife he’d endured. What others were still enduring on the streets every day. It made Arya smile to herself, just a bit. Gendry Waters— _Gendry Baratheon_ , Arya reminded herself—was a moody, stoic, stubborn man who could fight over just about anything until he was purple in the face. But he was determined. He had conviction. And more than sympathy, more than compassion, he had empathy.

And Arya felt proud to know him.

* * *

For all of Arya’s insistence that she was happier when she was on her own, she still craved company. It bothered her just how lonely she could get.

She'd ducked out of the feast early, only deigning to say goodnight to Gendry before slipping from the room, detected by no one. If it was anyone else, she wouldn't have bothered bidding anyone goodnight at all. Only the small chance of Gendry coming to her room later that night made her do it, as hard as it was to swallow her pride.

But the time she spends in her room while the minutes pass—she really isn't sure if she can confidently say _hours_ when she's sure time is only moving slowly to spite her—drives Arya near crazy. She glances up at every sound outside her door, circles the room in her bare feet, even attempts to go to sleep just to prove she could do it despite Gendry being in the same castle. The same city. The same kingdom.

Needless to say, it doesn't work.

The knock comes when Arya is sitting cross-legged on her bed with Needle placed delicately in front of her. She's polishing her beloved sword for lack of anything better to do, but the second she hears the soft knock on her door, she's returned Needle back to its rightful place and opening the door to reveal Gendry on the other side.

He looks a little flushed, but that could be thanks to any wine he'd drank that night. She hadn't seen him drink more than a cup but he could have had more after she'd left. And he's stripped off most of his outer layers so he's left in just a tunic and a pair of trousers. His fist is still raised, as if he was going to knock once more before she opened the door.

They stand there staring at each other for a moment, neither of them able to come up with anything to say to fill the silence. All those letters, and they were at a loss for words. Arya blamed herself for picking out every bit of informality and intimacy in Gendry's letters and discarding them, responding only to the barest sentences and leaving him with no choice but to do the same.

"Is the room to your liking?" Gendry asked finally.

So that's what it was going to be like, then?

Arya nodded once. "Yes. Quite comfortable."

"And your journey? Easy enough?"

"Quite comfortable," she repeated, raising one eyebrow at him in a challenge, daring him to rise up and take it.

Gendry's lips twitched slightly. "You left the feast over an hour ago. You said goodnight," he reminded her, his tone taking on a very meaningful note.

Arya gave no response, waiting to see if he would continue. She still hadn't stepped aside to let him in.

"My lady—"

"Gendry, I swear to all the gods there are—"

" _Arya_."

"Yes?"

Silence followed them once more. Arya hoped they could one day reach a point when it would be comfortable once more.

"Arya, are you still having trouble sleeping?"

Her breath caught slightly in her throat and her hand tightened on her door for a fraction of a second before dropping her arm down to her side.

"Every night," she answered honestly.

"Would you mind if I...would it trouble you greatly if..."

"Gendry," Arya interrupted. "You may be a lord now, but I hate the stuffy way you're talking. If you want to sleep here tonight, I'd like to hear you ask."

This time, his smile was complete. She didn't return it, but gods did she want to.

"Arry." Her heart had no business clenching so painfully when he called her that. "I have trouble sleeping, too. Could I?" he asked, gesturing past her inside her room.

Arya stepped to the side and held an arm out for him to come in. "If you must."

Picturing what it would be like to share a bed with Gendry once more had taken up the majority of Arya's thoughts since agreeing to come visit Storm's End. If she was being _really_ honest with herself, they'd occupied her thoughts ever since his own visit to Winterfell. She'd wondered if he would kiss her again, take her in his arms and make her fall apart so wonderfully like he had every night he'd stayed there, shown her how to do the same for him and held her to his chest afterwards while they slept.

It wasn't like that at all.

They burrowed themselves underneath the furs even though it wasn't _that_ cold in Storm's End, and they ended up laying on their sides and facing each other.

Gendry lifted a hand and brushed back a piece of hair from Arya's cheek. She placed one hand underneath her cheek and put the other in between them on her pillow.

"Do you really have trouble sleeping?" she asked quietly.

He nodded. "Every night."

"Since when?"

"After we...went our separate ways, it wasn't that easy to sleep in the beginning. It got a little better over the years, but never easy enough that I forgot what it was like to wake up from a nightmare. After I went past the Wall with Jon, though...I don't think I've had a decent night since."

She shifted a little closer to him. Her hand got close enough that if she stretched just a bit, she would touch the tip of his nose. "It's comfort," she reminded him, bringing back the words she'd said back in Winterfell. What she'd told him when he'd asked what she wanted from him.

Gendry nodded almost imperceptibly. "Comfort," he whispered.

"The last time," Arya continued, "you said it wasn't proper. This time, you came to _me_."

"I know how much you hate saying _please_."

Arya's lips pressed together in a tight, hard line and she looked away from him. "Goodnight, Gendry."

He didn't say it back.

* * *

It wasn't hard to slip back into an old routine. Not when they had both missed it.

Arya had managed to sleep through her first night. It could have been exhaustion from a long journey. It could have been because she was so relieved to have Gendry's steady presence beside her after such unrest at night that she couldn't be bothered to let any dreams disturb her. When she'd woken in the morning, he was already gone, but he'd scrawled a note for her on a slip of parchment telling her that he'd missed her and he would see her later that day and set it on the night table beside her bed for her to see when she woke up.

If anybody knew that Lord Gendry Baratheon had not slept in his bed on the first night that Lady Arya Stark had arrived from Winterfell on a visit for which nobody knew the reason other than mere friendship, nobody said anything. Her time at Storm's End was much different than Gendry's at Winterfell. She didn't have a specific role back home so her days were free and long, empty hours waiting for Arya to fill them up with whatever she wished to do. It had been easy to see Gendry whenever she wished. But here, he had actual duties to attend to.

It's wrong for her to want him to be with her every moment when she had asked him to wait for her knowing he would.

* * *

They manage to last two nights laying side by side, simply sleeping next to each other, before anything else happens.

It's Gendry that breaks first, only because Arya is the one person in the entire world who is more stubborn and has more pride than him.

Arya was the one who'd had more wine tonight at dinner, but she still managed to keep a clear head. She'd finished one cup and only managed to finish half of her second. Gendry had allowed a serving girl to fill his goblet and hadn't touched it once the entire night.

So when they're in bed—his bed, this time, and Arya decides she likes his rooms much better than the ones she's staying in temporarily—she doesn't feel any more lightheaded than she usually does whenever Gendry kisses her.

"Did you want this again?" he asks her when they're halfway to undressed and he's settled on top of her.

If she wasn't so scared of giving him an answer, she would tell him yes.

"Did you?"

Gendry laughs and ducks his head in the crook of her neck, chuckling in her hair. "Every night since I left."

Arya rolls her eyes at him dramatically, makes sure he sees it. And if he were anyone else but Gendry Waters, she would make a scathing remark about an abundance of pretty girls who wouldn't mind him spending the night with them. She didn't blame any of the girls who eyed him with interest. But it was Gendry. She'd had him first.

She wasn't willing to hold on to him forever, but she was unwilling to share.

Arya didn't like thinking about that particular type of selfishness, so she brought Gendry down to meet her lips once more.

It was easier this time. They had spent enough nights together that muscle memory helped guide their way to each other now. The way his hand tangled in her hair, the way she bit at his neck every time she wanted to moan. Clothes were discarded in the darkness of his room, promised to be tidied up tomorrow when urgency didn't surround them. Before, it had been about comfort. Now, it was about missing each other. The closeness, the feeling of having part of him with her, the ways they could learn each other's bodies and keep discovering new secrets...Arya was sure she could get drunk off the feeling alone.

His fingers slip inside of her and Arya lets out a moan this time, turning her face into the pillow as the noise escapes and she allows it. Gendry, for his part, is more sure of himself this time. Less careful with her. He doesn't stop on occasion and ask if she's alright, if she wants to stop. He knows when her hand tightens around his wrist that he needs to change the angle, but when she grips his shoulder, she wants him to go faster. And when she wraps one leg around his hip and uses it as leverage to push her hips up into his, there's no way that can be construed as anything except a good sign.

They're familiar with every part of each other now. It's enough to distract Arya from the fact that Gendry will never use anything except his hands and mouth on her. It's enough to make her fumble with the laces of his trousers and grasp him in her hand, remembering what he liked and disliked. Enough to try and guide him inside her.

Gendry stops then, exhaling a shaky breath around her name as he holds himself up with one hand braced on the bed under her. "Arya, please. You know—"

"I know," she says, squeezing her eyes shut and trying not to cry. "I know."

They remember more than their nights together, but they pretend not to. Arya doesn't ask him what he wants, and he doesn't ask her what she's thinking.

Neither would like the answer.

* * *

She stays for two weeks. Gendry was right—the godswood is nice. She practices archery and she even manages to train with some of the men who are more bold than the ones she sees in Winterfell, the ones who see _her_ every day. Arya decides that she likes the experience of seeing people who don't know everything about her. She likes the idea of seeing something outside the North. She likes that it's come with no struggle to stay alive.

By day, she lets those who live there guide her through Storm's End and show her everything they think she might like. It's still not easy to smile, but the hole inside her chest doesn't burn anymore. The days that Gendry manages to slip outside and train with her in the courtyard are the best. He isn't afraid of anyone seeing Arya beat him. In fact, he laughs about it and declares that next time, he'll manage. He never does, though. She's too quick for him, and his size slows him down. And Arya was much too competitive to let him win.

By night, he brings her to his chambers and they talk about ways to improve life for the smallfolk of Storm's End. They sit across from each other on his large bed and trade ideas, arguments, even fight over the ways in which they clash. While Arya points out that she knows how any highborn would think from growing up and watching her father handle these people, Gendry reminds her that he grew up on the streets and knew exactly what it was that the smallfolk wanted and, more importantly, _needed_ to survive. Compromise is difficult but they make it work, and by the time he leans over and kisses her almost-senseless, Arya feels such an ache in her heart that it almost makes her cry.

It's so easy with him, she realizes.

It's _only_ easy with him.

They never talk about it, any of it. By the time Arya begins to ready herself to journey back, Gendry watches from her doorway, leaning heavily against it as she throws her belongings into her trunk. There's a sad expression on his face that she knows is set in place even though her back is facing him, so she refuses to turn around. Only at night does he ever say a word and Arya hates him so much for it.

"I know you remember, so I won't bother asking if you do," he says the night before she's set to leave. They're naked under the furs and he's tracing idle patterns across her back. "But has anything changed since the last time we saw each other? At Winterfell?"

Arya's heart is in her throat and she can't find it in herself to answer.

It feels right to be with him, that much she knows. The problem with it is that she isn't sure if she's ready. She feels as if she's being split up into parts of herself and none of them can find resolution. A part of her still feels like a child, angry with the world for forcing her into uncomfortable dresses with a sister who hates her and unfair circumstances where she never got what she wanted. Another part is the frightened girl on the run who hid her identity and never learned to trust anyone. There's another part that is still desperate to forget everything about her life. An even larger part is the girl who wanted nothing more than to go home.

She _went_ home. She still felt lost.

"I don't want you to have to bear my weight," she said instead of giving him an answer.

"You're very small," Gendry said dryly, smiling sadly.

Suddenly, Arya feels as if she's about to cry and she turns on her back to face the ceiling. "Gendry, I—"

"Arya, I don't know if it's something you don't want to hear because you're scared or because you don't feel the same as I do, so I won't say it out loud, but I know that you know. Maybe you think that by not saying it, it doesn't mean anything, but it's always been true. It's always going to be true."

She closes her eyes and nods once. "I understand if your feelings have changed since our last conversation at Winterfell. I understand if you don't want to wait for me any longer."

"Is there anything left to wait for?"

Was there any reason he should still have hope? Was there anything left for Gendry to hold on to when he received her letters?

"When we said goodbye..." Arya turned back on her side to face him. "After you left, I felt hopeful for the first time in months. _Years_ , even."

"Will you ever give me a straight answer one day?"

Arya sighed heavily. "I hope so."

* * *

By the time she returns home, there's already a letter waiting for her from Storm's End.

It takes her three weeks to open it, and she doesn't respond.

* * *

Another month passes, and the letters stop completely. Gendry's letter that was waiting for her upon her return had been completely normal, full of nothing but friendly assurances and well wishes, even a request to give Sansa and Jon his best. He was the picture of gentlemanly, and Arya didn't even attempt to write a letter back to him. She couldn't bring herself to it.

So Gendry doesn't write one to her, either. Because that's not the way they do things. It isn't a conversation to be had face to face, where he can bombard her with questions nonstop. No, they send letters to each other one by one. The waiting is what had made it special. It had given her the thrill of anticipation, something to look forward to. Sometimes, she woke up and went to breakfast wondering if today would be the day Maester Wolkan handed her a scroll and said it was from Storm's End.

And then she remembered that she had somehow turned into a coward and Gendry must have assumed she wished to stop their correspondence altogether because she no longer wanted to give him the illusion of hope. Not when there wasn't anything left to be hopeful _for_. She couldn't blame him for not writing again. To do so under the impression that she was angry or upset with him would only irritate her further.

No, Gendry was the type of friend who would wait until she sent a letter reassuring him that they were still on good terms, and he would resume like normal.

Yes, he would add in as many snarky remarks as he could, but that was his way, just like it was Arya's.

And still, she wasn't ready to send a letter.

A fresh stack of parchment sat on her desk with a quill that hadn't been touched in two months, and Arya ignored looking at it every time she walked by.

* * *

"Do you still not love him?" Jon asks her one day.

They're in the godswood once more, because it's the only place the two of them can find any peace. Everyone knows they hide out here, but at least they have enough respect not to disturb them.

Arya doesn't have any new letters. She hasn't spoken to Gendry since she left Storm's End. The letter he'd sent for her had been waiting for three and a half months already. Arya pretended like she'd forgotten about it, but she went to bed every single night thinking about what she could possibly to say to excuse her behavior.

"I'm not quite sure what I feel," she mumbled. It was the most honest she'd ever been with anybody about her feelings for Gendry. A part of her had already come to terms with the fact that she did indeed love him, but a larger part of her still remained doubtful. The part of her that still struggled to fall asleep at night. The part that would wake from nightmares and rush headfirst into an attack on her lungs that would leave her gasping for air in the aftermath with nothing but questions as to _why_ she was still plagued like this.

There was no name for the way her veins itched with anxiety every time she saw large crowds. No name for the vomit-inducing nightmares and the inability to breathe when she awoke. No name for the gaping wound in her chest that had now dulled to a throbbing sensation. Arya doubted it would ever truly disappear at this point.

"Does he make you happy?" he asked.

"He makes me..." What did Gendry Waters make her? A reflex automatically answered for her: _Weak. Vulnerable. Unguarded, assailable, exposed_. A million words came to mind in a matter of seconds. She pushed them all away. "He makes me feel peaceful. When I have trouble sleeping, and I'm alone, I always feel like I'll never get to the end of it. Like there's always going to be something new blocking me from getting to the other side. And it's not like I don't know I will, I've had enough experience with this that I know. But when I'm in that sort of state, I forget all about it. He makes it better."

"He helps you remember that you'll get to the other side."

He was a tether to her emotions. A way to guide her back to solid ground when she felt like it had been ripped from underneath her feet. Leaning on support did not equate to weakness. Putting all her weight and problems on his shoulders did, but wasn't that exactly what Arya had been fighting this whole time? Was she still convinced that she needed him to carry the burden of _her_ , or was she only afraid of what would happen now that she no longer did?

"Help doesn't mean you're weak," Jon said, like he knew exactly what she was thinking. He probably did. They were always able to read each other, even after they'd returned as different people from who they'd been when they parted so long ago.

"What does it make me, then?"

"Human."

* * *

_Dear Gendry,_

_I won't blame you if you don't wish to write me any more letters. I know this one is five months too late and you can hardly call it a letter with this length. I do believe I've lost the right to your friendship after the way I've treated you—rather, the way I've ignored you these past few months. I also believe I've lost the right to any feelings you might have held for me now. I won't blame you for being angry with me, and I'd judge you if you weren't. I don't know what to say. I'm writing on a whim. I hope you can forgive me, and if you would still like to know if there's anything left for you to hope for, I would gladly give you an answer._

_Yours, Arya_

* * *

_ Arya, _

_ I'm writing as nothing more than a recently legitimized bastard who still has a hard time writing and reading sometimes. I know you love long letters, but if I wrote everything I wished to say, you'd be stuck reading all month and I'd have nothing to do but assume you reject what I'm about to ask of you. _

_ Come to Storm's End. Be with me. You can throw out all of your gowns if you wish, and I won't ask you to tame your hair. I won't ever deny you what would make you happy. I'm not sure if you remember, but we spoke in the crypts when I came to visit. I know you said that Winterfell has begun to feel like more of a graveyard to you than a home, so it's with a heavy heart that I ask you to build a new one with me. _

_ They say I'm in need of a wife, but I disagree. I'm in need of you, by my side, from now until the day we part this world. I'm ashamed I've kept myself from saying it for so long when you deserved to hear how much I love you. I've come so close to saying it so many times, but I've always held myself back when I realize that might have made you doubt yourself and me even more. I know the concept of forever might scare you, but I hope you hold enough affection for me in your heart to look past your fears. _

_ It's stupid to pretend like I don't love you, like you haven't always been the one for me. All I can do is hope you feel the same for me. _

_ If your answer is no, please don't hesitate to tell me. I swear I'll harbor no ill will, though I'd understand if you wish to stop our letters. I'd prefer to know now than spend the rest of my days wondering. _

_ All my love,  
_ _ Gendry _

Her reply is sent off tied to a raven only three hours before she departs for Storm’s End.

* * *

Seeing Gendry again is like seeing lightning for the first time. It startles her and it frightens her and it thrills her all at once.

When her presence is announced and she’s brought in front of him, he stares at her like she’s gone mad. “Arya?”

Arya doesn’t bother with any formalities. She’s never cared for them before, least of all with him. “Have you gotten my letter?” she asks.

Gendry blinks several times in rapid succession, clearly confused. He looks to one counsellor that’s sitting beside him, who simply shrugs his shoulders in bemusement, before turning to face her again. “I—a letter, no. We haven’t received anything.”

“Ravens,” Arya begins as she starts walking towards the table he’s seated at, “are bloody incompetent sometimes. And I do believe we need to have a word.”

* * *

“Do you love me?”

It’s the first thing he asks when they’re alone together. Arya doesn’t blame him.

“Yes.”

“Do you swear?”

She scoffs. “On every god there is to believe in. Do you love me?”

The noise Gendry makes in the back of his throat is something like a strangled mess caught between a laugh and a shout. He crosses the room to bridge the gap between them in three quick strides and catches her face in his hands, kissing her hard enough to bruise.

“Are you happy?”

Arya shakes her head. “No. I don’t think I’ve been happy for a long time. But I...I can be.”

“Why now?”

“I thought I had to wait until I was whole again to even attempt to be with you. I don’t know if it’ll ever happen. But I do know that being...without you has only made it worse.”

The smile on Gendry’s face is blinding. “Are you saying you’ve missed me?”

“ _ Gendry _ —”

“No, Arya, please.”

She pauses. Ponders if it’s worth it or not to give in to such a small argument.

“Would it ease your mind to hear an answer?”

“Yes.”

Arya kisses him once more. She finally gives him an answer. It is the first of many.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to write in the comments what’s your favorite Jane Austen declaration of love. Mine is from _Persuasion_ , because I clearly have a thing for writing a letter describing your undying love to the object of your affections that you’re terrified is going to slip through your fingers if you’re not fast enough.

**Author's Note:**

> ariastarke on tumblr


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